


What The End Comes To Be

by getoffmybarricade



Category: Les Miserables
Genre: (when he realises what’s going on), Angst, Azelma is amazing and deserves so much more attention, Combeferre...needs to learn what NOT to do in certain situations, Depression, Flashbacks, Jehan is literally the sweetest, M/M, Modern AU, Self Harm, Suicide/Attempted Suicide, Unrequited Love, implied/referenced eating disorder, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24775954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getoffmybarricade/pseuds/getoffmybarricade
Summary: Courfeyrac had always been labelled as the happy one. He was fine with that, really he was. It was just....It was that  no one seemed to notice when the smiled seemed forced, fake. No one seemed to notice when he he skipped a few meetingsThey never knew.They never cared to drop by and just check if he was okay. If he was alright.And he wasn’t alright.This is my own personal take on the amazing fic written by sassy_ninja. I’m so sorry I didn’t tag you earlier
Relationships: Courfeyrac/Enjolras, Enjolras/Grantaire
Comments: 68
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassy_ninja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassy_ninja/gifts).



> Warning: this fic might get kinda dark. There will be appropriate tags as I write more so just be careful if you think anything could be triggering.  
> Thankyou :)

For as long as anyone could remember, Courfeyrac had always been the happy one. He’d always have a stupid grin plastered on his face, would joke and laugh until he cried. The rest of the Amis would come to him when they had a problem, or a plan or anything. Anything at all. 

But no one seemed to notice when the smiled seemed forced, fake. No one seemed to notice when he he skipped a few meetings. 

“ _He’s probably out with someone.”_ They’d say. And they’d laugh and shake their heads. 

They never knew.

They never  cared  to drop by and just check if he was okay. If he was alright. 

That he wasn’t slowly drowning, slipping deeper and deeper below the surface, to the point where he couldn’t even begin to see the light anymore. And maybe it was because he had fallen too far, or maybe simply because he didn’t have enough fight left inside of him to try and reach back up, but he realised he didn’t  care  anymore. 

He was far from alright

And if he disappeared completely, who would really care?

Not him, anyway. 

Courfeyrac stood in the bathroom, his hands shaking like an earthquake as he frowned at his reflection. 

His eyes were lined with dark bags from his nights of not being able to sleep, and he hated the way his nose stuck out. He was too pale and too ugly and he definitely weighed  _ far  _ too much. Although he couldn’t properly remember the last time he ate a full meal. 

He sighed, a deep, rattling breath that only comes out after an extended period of time spent crying, and tried to wipe his eyes to look more presentable. There was a meeting in half an hour and his face was all blotchy and red, tear stains streaking his face. 

Of course, he could always say he’d had a fight with his parents as an excuse, hence the reason he was upset, but that would just attract questions. So if he was late for the meeting, so be it. 

Better to fake a smile and wait it out then try to explain the situation. 

_Yeah, I’m fine. Perfectly okay. Except from the fact that I hate every single fucking part of me and I’m completely, madly in love with my best friend who spends his entire life not-so-subtly pinning over someone else._

No. That wouldn’t do. So instead, Courfeyrac splashed some cold water on his face and trudged into the living room to wait for his face to cool down. 

Enjolras’s speech seemed to go on forever, and not because Courfeyrac thought it was boring, but because he couldn’t concentrate. His head was pounding and all he wanted to do was to go home and lay down. 

He’d been late for the meeting, only by ten or so minutes, and so had bounced in with a silly grin plastered on his face that felt too tight and made his jaw ache. “My apologies, oh fearless leader.” he’d announced, before dropping into a mock bow and high-fiving Grantaire, sitting down heavily in one of the vacant seats. 

Courfeyrac sighed and leant forwards on the table, eyes focused on Enjolras. 

He truly was beautiful, Courfeyrac thought. The golden curls and cerulean blue eyes, blue eyes that pierced right into his damaged soul. Well, if they could manage to see that far, why not see that he was falling apart?

He closed his eyes and let Enjolras’s melodic voice fill his ears. It was sad, sure, how much he pinned over the golden haired man in front of him, but at this point his entire life was so shit that Enjolras was the one highlight of it.

He wouldn’t even say highlight, to be completely honest. It was more than that; like a flame keeping him guided, keeping him from becoming lost in the darkness. Enjolras was the only thing keeping him steady, because really, if he wasn’t part of his life at the moment, Courfeyrac really didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to hold on. 

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear Enjolras speaking to him, beckoning at him. He was brought back to his senses by a sharp nudge from Jehan, who was looking at him with deep concern in his hazel eyes. “What?” He blinked. “Oh,”

Oh, the speech... _ his _ speech

Enjolras frowned at him from across the room and tilted his head sideways. “Isn’t there anything you want to add, Courf?” He said. It wasn’t even accusing, but he couldn’t bare to let him down, even if Enjolras didn’t realise it himself. 

Courfeyrac stood up quickly, his mind racing as he tried to gather his thoughts enough to remember his speech. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his coat pocket to hide their shaking. As he got ready to speak, or ramble-probably the same thing now, he noticed Enjolras’s eyes flick towards Grantaire for just a second. 

He didn’t even say anything to him, but he could see the smile tug at his lips, the way the lines of stress in his forehead smoothed out for just a second. And he noted the way Grantaire swallowed nervously, smirked effortlessly at him, and even he could see that the minute they figured out their obvious feelings for each other, every tiny wisp of hope he’d been holding onto would evaporate. 

Enjolras would never love him back. Not the way Courfeyrac loved him. And yes, he had flings and one night stands, and  yes  he used to go out on dates almost every week, but Enjolras was always the reason they  were  flings and one night stands! He was  _ trying _ , for fuck’s sake. He was trying so hard to erase those feelings from his mind, but after all the years of them embedding itself in his brain, he couldn’t let go of them. Whether Enjolras reciprocated them or not. 

He tried to push the scene from his mind but it was suddenly as if every other thought in his mind disappeared, turning him numb. Because Enjolras was looking at him, glowing under the ancient Musain lights with his blue eyes trained right on him. Courfeyrac felt his stomach twist and his breathing hitch, and as much as he tried to force the words out of his mouth, they wouldn’t come. And he knew he looked ridiculous; standing there gaping like a goldfish or the absolute idiot that he was. 

It was like there was an invisible hand on his throat stopping him from being able to form even a single sentence, anxiety welling up inside of his chest. He could feel the heat rushing to his face, the tears prickling behind his eyes, so he did what he did best. 

He ran. 

Like he ran away from all of his problems. The ground was rising up and the walls seemed to be caving inwards as he forced himself into the open air.  _Breathe_ ,  he told himself,  _ just breathe.  _

It was no use; the second he leant against the brick wall, he burst into tears. He was reaching for breath that wasn’t there, trying to find a grip on reality to pull himself back to the present. He was suffocating, a self-deprecating chain of thoughts ringing in his mind, heart beating at a hundred miles per hour. His head pounded as he sobbed but he couldn’t stop, there was a pain choking his throat and the ground swaying beneath him, tears blurring his vision. 

Why did he have to feel like this? And it wasn’t even as if he had a bad life; his financial situation was fine, his parents cared enough, he had the greatest friends. But he just couldn’t find that part of himself that he used to know, the part that used to laugh and joke and be the centre of the group. Although, he hadn’t seen that part of himself for a long time now. 

Courfeyrac felt a hand on his shoulder and he whipped around quickly, heart jumping to his throat. He hadn’t even realised he was huddled on the ground, back against the wall and rain trickling down his neck. It could be tears, now that he thought about it, and he wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference. And to his absolute dismay, (but extremely typical), Enjolras was stood there with confusion in his eyes. 

His eyebrows were drawn closely together, forming the smallest of creases, and his ski slope nose was scrunched up. His eyes were filled with a certain kindness that made Courfeyrac want to open up and spill everything he’d been holding in to him. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had those kind of thoughts, he’d often fantasised about just letting it all out, but crouching there in the pouring rain with a headache beating against his forehead, he felt too exhausted to even think about it. 

Courfeyrac diverted his eyes from Enjolras’s gaze-something he knew the other man hated-and tried to wipe the tears from his face. Enjolras always thought that eye contact was mandatory in a conversation. What was it? Ah yes;  _the eyes are the window to the soul_.  And he was also very aware that up until now he’d tried very hard to always keep this in mind. So not looking at him was doing nothing in his favour, but if he did, he’d only burst into a fresh round of tears. 

“Courfeyrac?” He glanced up for the briefest of seconds, before he felt the tears welling up again, just like he’d known.Enjolras still managed to look breathtakingly beautiful, even soaking wet, and whilst Courfeyrac felt like a drowned rat; hair plastered to his forehead, eyes red swollen-Enjolras was glistening in the rain with golden curls tumbling into his face. 

“What’s the matter with you today?”

“Nothing-“ His own voice was scratchy and quiet, sticking in his throat and threatening to melt into tears. 

“Don’t even start. Please tell me what’s wrong...?” It shouldn’t even be possible for one person to be so selfless. He had a meeting to run and could of easily asked someone else to see if he was okay. And truth be told, he’d rather it be anyone but Enjolras out here now. 

He sighed and shook his head gently, too deflated to even try. “Not now, Enjolras.”

“Courf, come back inside or at least-“

“-I said not now!” 

His voice was sharp and cruel, and he saw Enjolras flinch, and pull back slightly, hurt registering on his face. It pained Courfeyrac to be so sharp, but he couldn’t find the point in trying to explain. It was too confusing and too painful to begin. And anyway, he didn’t want to talk. 

Enjolras sighed and ran a hand through his curls before looking down. “I was only trying to help...”

Courfeyrac didn’t answer. He just shrugged helplessly in the freezing rain, hurting the man he loved, with tears rolling down his cheeks. 

A heavy silence fell between them both, twisting at their insides, before Enjolras spoke again; 

“Do you need a lift home?”

“It’s okay,”

“Courf-“

“-i said it’s  _ fine _ !” And he hated the bite that had crept into his voice and the venom that he could feel radiating from it, but there was nothing he could do.

And with that, he watched Enjolras exhale and turn sharply on his heel, heading back into the warmth of the Musain. 

Courfeyrac stood in the street as icy rain trickled down his back, wondering at what point in his life everything had gone wrong.

And it was the rain, again, that found him soaked to the bone the following day, waiting and waiting for the others to arrive. 

He wasn’t even early, and he knew he hadn’t missed it because the meetings were  _ always  _ at the Musain, at seven o’clock sharp. 

He’d spent the entire day trying to look presentable, but the bags under his eyes had only worsened, and the previous night that consisted of drinking his sorrows away only added a raging headache to it all. He’d thought that maybe the alcohol would make him forget how he’d behaved at the Musain, and just maybe, he could be spared the embarrassment if he didn’t remember. 

Well, that plan had backfired. 

_ Where are you? _

_ Hello?  _

_Enjolras_?

Enjolras didn’t answer his phone. They’ll come, he told himself firmly, though he could hear the doubt even in his own mind. _Any minute now, he_ thought, _any minute now._

It was definitely seven, wasn’t it? He knew his phone was old and he was in desperate need of a new one, but the time wasn’t messed up was it? He was kidding himself though, he knew that, but it was less painful than accepting whatever has actually happened. 

_ Guys, where are you? _

_ Oh come on, it’s not funny! _

_ Guys? _

And it continued to rain, trickling down his spine and back, chilling him in a way he’d never been cold before. And he has a feeling it wasn’t just from the rain.

Courfeyrac felt a vibration in his pocket and pulled out his phone to see a single text message from Enjolras:

_ The meeting’s not on? I told everyone yesterday? _

And just like that, he broke down into tears. They _didn’t_ tell him yesterday, because he left yesterday. And nobody bothered to remind him or let him know. They knew he’d left, they must have known he wouldn’t have had any way of knowing! Why didn’t Combeferre remind him? He always reminded him of important things. And he and Enjolras were supposed to be his best friends, surely one of them could have remembered...? 

He was so tired of having to play this game with himself, with his own mind! Why couldn’t be like everyone else? Why did he have to be so fucked up that he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror anymore without almost bursting into tears. Why couldn’t his hands every stop shaking and why did he have to be such a disappointment to everybody?

Couldn’t they see? Couldn’t anyone see he wasn’t okay? Or maybe they didn’t want to see. That way they weren’t responsible for however he felt because they had never asked. No. No, they just didn’t bother to look past the mask he wore and see that underneath he was a mess. He needed someone, anyone, to pull him back up because he had hit rock bottom so long ago now that he couldn’t do it by himself. 

Was it normal that every time he walked over a bridge he worked out the possibilities of being rescued by a passer by, if he somehow managed to ‘fall’ over the side? Was it concerning that when bought hangover cures and paracetamol, he wondered how many of those little pills it would take to make it all stop for good? 

He didn’t know. But he didn’t care, and from the way things seemed to be going, neither did anyone else. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first he’d denied it. He didn’t have a crush on Enjolras-they were just best friends, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: self harm  
> I don’t think it’s too graphic but it’s definitely there

_ Fifteen years ago  _

_ Courfeyrac was in his room, sulking and hiding from his mom. She’d insisted on him getting a haircut even though he’d only had one, like, a month ago. And anyway, he  liked  having his hair long, and it looked way better in his opinion.  _

_ But he was hungry as much as he was annoyed, (probably more so), and he was trying to think of an excuse to go downstairs without admitting his mini protest was over, when he heard a knock at the door. They didn’t know many neighbours, and got on with only a small handful of them, so he couldn’t imagine who would be coming round.  He  liked them, Courfeyrac liked practically everyone and was very much a people person, but for some reason his mom never seemed to be able to understand how he did that, and they ended up with more enemies than friends.  _

_He peeked out from behind his curtains but whoever the caller was, was standing around the corner on the patio, and there was no car on the driveway either. So he_ ho _pped off of his bed and padded down the stairs, hoping for it to be a takeaway of something, although he highly doubted it._

_When he flung the door open, he was met with a blonde boy about his own age stood on the doorstep. He had curly hair that looked silkier than any other hair Courfeyrac had ever seen, and it was quite long too, which only renewed his annoyance at his own hair being chopped off. The boy didn’t look particularly happy to be here, and he was fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater as if he were nervous_. 

_ “Oh. Um, hi?” He offered, checking behind him casually to see if his mom was anywhere nearby.  _

_ The boy straightened up and handed him a plate of freshly baked cookies in a plastic container. “I’m Enjolras,” he said, smiling briefly, although he looked a bit more relaxed now. “I’m from down the road, we just moved in and my mom sent me to give you these because apparently we’re the same age.”  _

_ Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow despite himself. Don’t get him wrong, he was happy he now has some cookies to eat, and maybe he could sneak them upstairs before his own mom found out they were here. But Enjolras must have taken his expression for one of confusion and he immediately backtracked, his face blushing furiously.  _

_“I mean you don’t_ _ have  to take them, you know. If you don’t want to.”  _

_ “No! No, I love cookies! They’re my favourite.” He grinned and wondered if he’d ever seen anyone as pretty as the guy stood in front of him. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt hot and awkward, and he shifted his weight awkwardly between his feet. “Thanks.”  _

_ Enjolras nodded and tilted his head expectantly, but Courfeyrac couldn’t decide why, but then he suddenly realised he hasn’t introduced himself. “Oh, I’m Courfeyrac,” he laughed, “but you can call me Courf if you want, and I’m really friendly, don’t worry. I think we’re going to be really good friends.”  _

_ The other boy chuckled a bit, and rocked back on his heels, tugging his hands into his sleeves.  _

_ “Do you want to come in?” He offered, but Enjolras shook his head, looking uncertainly around the door as if he expected some monster to appear out of nowhere.  _

_ “No thanks.” He said, and Courfeyrac felt his face blushing with embarrassment, but then he realised Enjolras was grinning at him from ear to ear. “But we can go to the park if you want?”  _

_ He nodded enthusiastically and waved goodbye to his mom from the kitchen, who poked her head around and frowned.  _

_ “Where are you going?” She groaned, sighing dramatically. “Courfeyrac?”  _

_He smiled at her over his shoulder and hooked his arm into Enjolras’s who, to his delight, grinned and laughed loudly. “With my new best friend!” He called, and they ran off down the street, arm in arm_ _the whole way._

Now

The second he got home, Courfeyrac slammed the door as hard as he could. He had hoped it would help take away some of his anger and pain and whatever it was he was feeling. 

But all it did was cause a bubble of sobs to escape his chest, and he sank to the ground, his back against the smooth wood of his front door. He dropped his head to his hands, hiding himself away even when no one was there. He was so unbelievably tired, and didn’t understand how he even has any tears left inside of him. Everything was so fucking hard now, and he’d been in love with Enjolras pretty much since the moment he first set eyes on him, even it had taken a while for what he felt to finally sink in. 

At first he’d denied it. He didn’t have a crush on Enjolras-they were just best friends, right? And just as he’d finally learnt to accept that maybe what he felt for him ran a bit deeper than friendship, he realised just how fucked he was. At first, he’d thought maybe Enjolras could like him back, but then he’d heard how he began to talk about other boys, and he never even gave him a second thought. 

And then of course three years ago, Grantaire had to rock up to the meetings, which changed everything. It was obvious that Grantaire adored Enjolras straight away, but it took him a while to realise that maybe Enjolras did feel the same about him. That is, once they’d got past the sessions where he would just rant about how much he hated R to himself and Combeferre. And once it settled in, he realised that he stood absolutely no chance anymore. Not that he ever had. 

Enjolras and Grantaire were far from the perfect couple, and they weren’t even together yet, but anyone could see they were so blatantly fallen for each other. And three years of watching Enjolras throw little side glances at him and blush when he teased, the small smile that would tug at the corner of his lips when R would stroll into the room, had taken its toll. 

And the effect was the absolute mess Courfeyrac had become. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep. Because the second he let his mind wander, he was attacked with his own intrusive thoughts. And it got to the point where he just goes numb, letting his own mind eat away at him, reminding him oh how he will never be worth enough. 

Whatever he does will never be enough; he will never look anything more than ugly, never learn to accept his weight, despite going without eating for as long as possible. Never. 

He let out a chest heaving sob, the kind that tears through your body and leaves you with a pain in your heart. The kind that never subsides, and just keeps on coming, reminding him of everything that was wrong. It was painful now, the pain in his heart and his chest and his mind unendurable, and he knew he had to do something to take his mind away from it quickly. Even if only temporarily. 

He stumbled up from the floor, his vision blurred with tears, but it didn’t even matter anymore. It didn’t matter that his skin was marked red and pink countless times, scars that only burned the thought that he deserved this into his mind. And he was lucky, dammit, he was so lucky! Half the people that he knew were in worse positions that him, and yet they weren’t struggling to get by. Or, not like he was. Why was his own life so hard to accept when there were people who were  _ dying  _ on the streets, without homes or friends to turn to. 

He felt sick, he wanted to scream and shout and destroy every single fucking thing he could see to try and clear his mind. He never told anyone else. He loved his friends so much, and they might care, they might not, but they certainly couldn’t understand. And he knew that if he were to mention his life and how much he hated it, and not even how much he hated himself, he knew a part of them would want to say he could have it worse. 

Hot tears escaped his eyes again, and how there were still any left to cry he didn’t know, but he made no attempt to wipe them. 

His bathroom was cooler, but it wasn’t enough to calm him down. Not this time. He avoided the mirror purposely this time, not giving himself an excuse to make things even worse, thought at this point, what could? 

He dropped to his knees again, not even bothering to try and fumble for the light switch, and felt his way to the cupboard under the sink. His hands came to rest on a small packet that he knew to hold the six razor blades he bought the other week. He’d tried to stop, wanting to convince himself that he was good enough, he didn’t have to do this. But he’d not even made it more than two days clean so far, and honestly, he couldn’t even see why it could possibly make anything worse than it was now. 

Except maybe hope the weather didn’t get any better. He’d been lucky recently with the heavy rain and chilly air despite it being early May, and he could only pray it stayed that way. 

But right now, he didn’t care. Nothing he mattered. Only the sharp, momentarily relieving bursts of pain that were exploding along his forearms. He knew he was reopening previously healing wounds, but he was finally thinking about something other than his own failure. 

Hot blood trickled down his arms, mixing with his tears and the gasping sobs that were echoing in the small bathroom, vibrating round and round and drilling into his skull. The panic was rising again, spilling out of him and engulfing him so that he had no control. He collapsed against the cool tiles of the floor, his eyes slowly growing heavier. The exhaustion of the day was catching up on him and he really didn’t think he could avoid sleep any longer. 

He did this because it was the one thing in his own shitty life he could control and now even that was being taken away from him. Nothing was enough these days; the pain, the shock. None of it. 

A sudden rap on the door drew him back to his panicked senses, and he bolted up again, fear swelling in his chest. He couldn’t be seen like this, so he called out in a voice that he desperately hoped wouldn’t break, 

“One minute!” 

After fumbling around in the darkness for a second, he managed to find a sweater that would hide whatever mess he’d made this time. He didn’t dare brave a look in the mirror and only hoped that maybe it was dark enough outside for his blotchy face to be less obvious. Taking a deep, hitching breath, he firmly shut the bathroom door and opened the front one, taking a double take at his visitor. 

“Ferre?” 

Combeferre was leaning against the pole on his porch, halfway through cleaning his glasses. He paused at Courfeyrac’s voice and hastily shoved them back on his face, eyes widening as he took in his obvious wrecked state. It wasn’t even raining anymore, and it felt like hours since it had been. 

“Courf! What’s-are you okay?” 

Was he okay? No! No, he wasn’t. Because nobody bothered to inform him anything anymore, nobody thought that just maybe he wasn’t always so happy, despite being the first one to laugh at someone’s jokes. 

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“Look, I’m so sorry I didn’t call and explain about the meeting being cancelled. I thought...”

He looked guilty, and on any other day maybe he’d feel bad and just accept the damn apology, today was bad enough. He was not going to be the guy that just laughed and thought a quick call and brief apology would suffice. 

“You thought what?” Courfeyrac snapped, his voice colder than it had ever been. A lady oh him felt bad, but he’d taken so much anger out on himself lately that it felt...well, not  _ nice _ _,_ per say...but relieving. “You thought that maybe I’d be able to just figure it out myself?” 

“Courf-“ his tone was pleading, but he was on a path towards self destruction so if meant setting a few things straight before letting his life shatter into a thousand pieces, so be it. 

“Because you didn’t call me!” He could feel the tears prickling in his eyes and  shit  he never used to be a cryer, but it was either that or resort to violence. And he didn’t like the idea of the latter. “And Enjolras didn’t call me! But you all saw me leave. And I’m sure Enj told you all about our conversation, didnt he?” 

He didn’t really expect Enjolras to have told Combeferre something that was obviously private, but he just really wanted someone to prove that they could keep his secret. To prove that even if he was having difficulty finding it, they  _ did  _ care. But Combeferre dropped his head, his gaze coming to rest on the potted plant by his front door. He’s forgotten to water it and it had died now, but it had once been pretty. 

Although maybe everything was once pretty. But life catches up and it somehow manages to you and destroys everything in its path. His pride, his happiness and everything that used to matter to him. It was all gone. By the time he even registered the tears, they were rolling down his cheeks, sliding off the end of his nose. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Combeferre was looking at him with such a strange expression that he was beginning to feel even more alone. He couldn’t even figure out what his best friend was thinking. 

“He did tell you, didn’t he?” Courfeyrac mumbled, not trusting himself to speak any louder. Did Enjolras really not have any regards for his respect? Of course, it was possible he just didn’t quite realise the severity of the situation, but he wasn’t stupid. It was quite obvious important to him. 

“He-he was worried, Courf.” Combeferre started lamely, his eyes flicking up for only a second. 

“Courfeyrac.” 

“What?” Combeferre frowned, tilting his head to the side. 

“It’s Courfeyrac. Not Courf.” 

He was sobbing openly again, already moving to close the door on him, but Combeferre was quicker and stealthier, lodging his foot almost instantly in the crack of the door. He withered only slightly under his penetrating glare. 

“Let me in, please?” 

And he almost did, but then another realisation hit him like a bullet. The blood, the blades, everything! If he let him see that, even not intentionally, he would know something was wrong. And fuck would go and get therapy; it wasn’t like it ever worked. And he just left feeling even more shitty about himself than he had to begin with. 

In a moment of pure panic, heart in his throat and beating so loudly that surely he could hear it, Courfeyrac tried to slam the door shut again. But at the same time, Combeferre grabbed hold of one of his arms, and he couldn’t help the antagonised whimper of pain that escaped his lips. Combeferre looked at him sharply, quick mind running through all of the different possibilities, and he knew it wouldn’t take long for him to put two and two together. 

“Courfeyrac?”

“I hit my arm on the kitchen counter earlier. Hurts like hell, though I can’t see why you’d care.” A low blow, sure, but it did it’s job well, and Combeferre released his grip, arm dropping back to his side. 

“I’m coming in.” He said bluntly, pushing forwards. He was taller then Courf was, and definitely more muscular, though he couldn’t remember ever seeing him work out. 

_ Well, not all people are fuck-ups like you, he reminded himself bitterly.  _

“No you’re not,” he tried weakly, but he knew he didn’t have enough strength left to really be able to stop Ferre if he was trying to get inside. He wracked his brains for some way to just get him to leave. He’d spent all day waiting for someone to come, but now he was here, all he wanted was to be alone in the dark with his own thoughts, however self-depreciating they might be. 

“ _ Courf _ !” He said through gritted teeth, and he could hear the frustration bubbling in his voice, which made him even angrier.  Combeferre  was not the victim here.  Combeferre  didn’t need to know any more than he’d already let on. 

“Get the fuck out.” 

He usually refrained from swearing around Combeferre because he knew he didn’t like it. Ferre himself rarely swore, and he knew that by doing so, he’d be fully aware of how fucking angry he was. 

“What?”

“I said get the fuck out of my apartment, Combeferre!” 

This time, he let the door slam, and by the time Courfeyrac had lifted his head from where it had been resting on his arm, the little blue car had already pulled out of his driveway and left. 

Which was what he wanted, right? Yeah. He kept telling himself that, dancing on the edge of his unspoken needs, but he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore, let alone what he wanted. 

He just wanted to feel happy again, although he doubted that was going to be a possibility any time soon. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorryyyy okay?  
> But the real reason I’m writing this fic is because I think people need to be careful what they say to people. A lot of time the ‘happiest’ people are the ones who suffer the most  
> Make sure you check up on them, especially at times like these


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re all going to the movies in like half an hour, so I’m just letting you know I’ll be picking you up around then. Okay?” 
> 
> The movies? Absolutely not.

Despite his absolute best efforts, he’d not managed more than a few hours of sleep. The majority of the night had been spent laying awake, staring at his ceiling as if it could somehow give him answers. 

He didn’t want Combeferre to hate him, but he’d done a pretty damn good job of making that happen, and he knew that he should probably call him. But he didn’t think he’d be able to bare hearing the anger in the other man’s voice. So instead he scrolled aimlessly through his contacts, his finger hovering over the one that read:  _Jehan_. 

Soft, gentle Jehan who would help him if he asked for it. But he couldn’t burden him with all his stupid problems, so that was a lost cause. However he did want to hear his voice, so he dialled the number and stared at the screen, the incessant ring tone piercing his ear drums. 

However it stopped abruptly, Jehan‘s voice filling his ears. “Courf?” 

Could he be trusted not to burst into tears and tell Jehan everything? 

He suddenly couldn’t deal with it all. He didn’t want to have to talk, to answer the questions. That was another reason he’d always hated therapists and hospitals; questions that he didn’t want to answer and questions he didn’t know  _ how  _ to answer.

“Courfeyrac, are you there?” 

He bit his lip and ended the call, swallowing the lump that had somehow managed to appear in his throat. He felt bad, really bad, but he couldn’t go through with it. He knew he’d only end up bursting into tears and spilling all his darkest secrets down the phone. 

He threw his phone down on the table defeatedly, almost jumping out of his skin when it immediately began to blast out music, the ringtone he’d installed especially so he knew it was Enjolras calling. With a sigh, he picked up the call, leaning his head against the wall. 

“Hello?”

“Courf! Hey.” He sounded like he was in a good mood and Courfeyrac felt a pang of jealousy flare to life inside his chest. It wasn’t fair. He always tried his fucking best to be a good person, and it haven’t even paid off. He’d tried so hard to be there for this friends when they needed him, and he’d forgotten to take care of himself along the way. Wow. He was  _ jealous  _ of his friend’s happiness now. No, not fucked up at all. 

“Oh. Hi, Enj.”

“We’re all going to the movies in like half an hour, so I’m just letting you know I’ll be picking you up around then. Okay?” 

The movies? Absolutely not. He wasn’t sitting there for god knows how long having to answer the awkward questions about what happened. The ABC was bloody nosy, if anything, and he doubted that the whole episode with him running out into the rain, snapping at Enjolras and leaving would somehow manage to escape them. 

He did love his friends, but they sometimes didn’t respect privacy. He knew they didn’t intend to do that, but he’d learned the hard way through a million different interrogations. 

“Uh, I don’t think I’m coming, sorry.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Enjolras rambled on, and Courfeyrac had to pinch his nose to stop himself from groaning down the phone to him, “so that’s why I’m picking you up anyway. See you in thirty-“

“-Enjolras, wait-“ 

The call disconnected and he let out a frustrated whine. He didn’t want to go out. It wasn’t that hard to understand! He could always just ignore Enjolras when he came round, but somehow that just made him feel mean. After all, it wasn’t Enjolras’s fault he was like this. 

So he trudged into the bathroom, groaning as he saw how much of a mess he looked; huge bags under his eyes, sickly pale and he could have surely passed as a fucking zombie. His hair was sticking out everywhere, tangled and probably unwashed, and to be honest he couldn’t really remember when he last brushed it. 

He handn’t bothered to clean himself up last night-thought he probably should have-and as a result had fallen asleep still wearing the clothes he was dressed in. He realised his mistake now that the sleeves of his hoodie were stuck to his arms and he couldn’t pull it apart without a fresh wave of pain slicing through him. He let out muffled a shriek between gritted teeth when he tried, tears squeezing out of the corners of his tightly closed eyes. 

He’d only ever made this particular mistake once before, usually he could take care of the situation, and he knew just how painful it was going to be. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the hoodie over his head, trying to ignore the tightness of his chest. The sharp pain that followed made his headache seem dull in comparison, and he let a string of curse words escape his mouth. He didn’t even know how much of a mess he’d made yet, but something was telling him it was worse than usual. 

His theory was confirmed when he braved a glance at his arms. He almost gasped, a sick feeling settling in his stomach, and he couldn’t even feel that strange sense of satisfaction that he usual found. He’d done it. He’d somehow crossed that line, and maybe nothing would ever be enough anymore. Maybe he’d finally tipped over the edge, gone too far down to make it okay again. Maybe there just wasn’t a point anymore. 

His luck seemed to have vanished. The rain that had been pouring down so heavily only last night had disappeared, and in its place was the sweltering heat that May promised. It was way to hot for a hoodie and he didn’t even own any long-sleeved shirts, so a jacket was the only option. But it was so hot, and he knew that it was going to be a long, exhausting day, but there there was nothing he could do about that. 

The bandages on his arms made him feel stiff and weird, and he was paranoid that his sleeves were going to ride up and they’d be on show. And if that happened, there would be no getting out of it. He was seriously considering just bailing on the day, when to his ever increasing misfortune, there was a knock at the door. 

The drive to the movies was uneventful. He sat in the passenger seat of Enjolras’s car, pretending to look out of the window. He didn’t roll the window down because Enjolras was playing music loud and he hated the feeling of other people being able to hear it. 

“Aren’t you hot?” Enjolras asked after a while, when the strain between them became almost too much to handle. 

“No. Uh, I’m fine.” He said hurriedly, tugging the sleeves of his jacket down; a habit he’d recently discovered himself doing. 

“Are you sure? Courf, it’s like a thousand degrees.”

He swallowed, but scolded himself internally, determined to make the dread disappear. Enjolras didn’t know, and he wasn’t about to find out. Just keep it calm, play it cool, and he’d be okay. 

“Yeah, I think I’m coming down with something, you know.” He said vaguely, cursing himself as Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “And no, I don’t need joly fussing over me so don’t tell him?” 

Enjolras chuckled and shook his head, his eyes locked on the road ahead. God, he looked so beautiful. In the midday light, his curls seemed to glow like a halo, and his dazzlingly blue eyes were dancing with happiness. It was obvious how much he loved his friends and enjoyed spending time with them, and it only added to Courfeyrac’s ever growing guilt, because as much as he loved them too, he wanted to be anywhere but here. 

And by the time they pulled up to the building, he’d made no attempt to try and change that. 

“You ready?” Enjolras grinned. He grabbed his arm and hooked it into his own, just like Courfeyrac had done all those years ago, and tried to not to cry. Because Enjolras didn’t know what he was doing to him! He couldn’t see that as much as he adored holding the blondes attention even for a few moments, it just made the hurt even more intense when he accepted that these feelings were never going to be reciprocated. 

Their friends were waiting in the area in front of the desks, their excitement so contagious it felt like they were all kids again. He saw Grantaire’s face light up as Enjolras dragged him inside, unaware of the excruciating pain in his arms, and he felt his stomach sinking as Enjolras subtly returned that happiness. 

Jehan greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, glancing briefly at the jacket he was wearing. Not wanting to have to explain the reason he was supposedly ‘coming down with something’, he dodged past leading them all into the theatre. 

He didn’t even know what film they were watching, just that it had something to do with clowns and Halloween. But he laughed when appropriate, jumped when everyone else did, and smiled so tightly that his jaws ached. And the whole time he was just trying to silence his mind, but it was a battle that he was losing even more every day. He couldn’t stop the fear and desolate sadness from creeping around the corners, clouding his mind and trailing its cold fingers along his shoulders, curling around him like some kind of animal. 

He was squashed between Jehan and Bahorel, who were both thoroughly engrossed in the film. He shuffled in his seat, suffocating in the sweltering heat of too many bodies in a too small space. Courfeyrac let out an involuntary sigh, his breathing edging on panting. He felt like crying. He was too hot and so uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than to escape. He contemplated saying he was going to get a drink and then leaving, but he figured it would be difficult to explain later. 

Well either way he needed to get the fuck out of the place, even for just a moment, so he whispered something or another to Jehan and hurried out as quietly as possible. 

He wasn’t sure where to go, but the obvious would be the bathroom, and he was hoping there wouldn’t be anyone in there. 

It was much cooler in here, his ragged breathing echoing around the empty space, but it didn’t calm him down as he had hoped it might. His hands were shaking again and he considered removing his jacket, just for a moment, but the door creaked open behind him and he thought better. He didn’t even realise who had walked in until he heard his name spoken softly, the speaker placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Are you okay?”

“I wish everyone would stop fucking asking that. I’m  _fine_.” 

Grantaire quirked the corner of his lips upwards for a small second, the ghost of a smile still lingering. Then he frowned and did a quick one over, tugging on the shoulder of his jacket. 

“Jesus, you must be roasting in that thing!” 

“No. I’m fine actually. It’s not that hot.” 

He was getting rather good at lying, he realised bitterly. Especially when it came to his friends. His friends who were basically his family, but who he couldn’t even tell a wisp of the truth to. 

He knew Grantaire would be the first one to see through his disguise, if anyone had to. After all, the guy had struggled with his own depression a few years back. But unlike Courfeyrac, he had been able to rely on everyone to help him. And anyway, though he hadn’t really been obvious about it, it hadn’t been that easy to guess, and his drinking habits had almost confirmed what everyone suspected. 

He was sober now, clean for almost two years and it was clear he was much happier. And Courfeyrac was so happy for him as well. He’d hated seeing R like that, not speaking unless he was was lashing out and he knew that the ABC had tried their best to help him, but really it was Enjolras who had made the biggest impact. Enjolras who did as much as he could, falling pretty much in love with him as he did so, and it could only be a matter of time before they got their acts together and sorted out their relationship. 

And whenever that day came, Courfeyrac knew he’d be heartbroken. Happy for his best friend, of course, but utterly alone. 

“Courf,” Grantaire sighed, “I’ve been sat behind you the entire movie. You’ve done nothing but fidget and look as if you’re about to collapse.” 

Okay so maybe his plan hasn’t been as foolproof as he might have thought, but surely he’d be able to come up with some sort of lie. Shouldn’t be too hard, and he was already so bloody good at it anyway. 

“I just don’t feel well, R. That’s all.”

He knew Grantaire had his best interests at heart, but he couldn’t let him know. He was the _happy_ one. And if they all just left him alone for on goddamn day, he’d be able to pretend again. Well, as best as he could manage. He made to leave but Grantaire’s hand shot out, locking firmly around his arm, and he couldn’t help the muffled gasp that bubbled out of his throat.

He could tell immediately that he’d fucked up. Grantaire wasn’t stupid, and he knew what it was like to be at your lowest, but maybe he didn’t quite know just how bad Courf had gotten. Maybe he could spin out something to convince him that he was fine. And if he kept telling himself that, he’d have to eventually believe it, right? 

Wrong. But what other choice did he have?

“Courf?” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, praying to every god in every religion that he could get himself out of the mess he’d made. 

“Yes?” 

“Take your jacket off.” 

His heart dropped out of his chest, panic like he’d never felt making his stomach turn over in fear. He knew the colour must have drained from his face, which would do him no favours, but he could get through this. If he watched what he said. 

But what if he couldn’t? Then he’d just be 

the one everyone became careful around. The one they all thought might break at any given moment. That wasn’t him. Well maybe it was, but that was a side only he was allowed to see. 

_ Don’t say too much to Courfeyrac or he might top himself. You can’t joke with him anymore he’s too fragile.  _

No. No. They couldn’t know. He had to be the shoulder to cry on when someone needed it was the listening ear to steady people’s problems. 

“What?” He said, applauding himself inwardly when his voice didn’t crack and break. 

“I said, take off your jacket.” Grantaire repeated calmly, but he could hear the edge of doubt creeping into his voice. He didn’t really expect Courfeyrac to admit anything was wrong, didn’t expect there to be anything wrong. He was just being a concerned friend, that was all. 

“Why?”

“ _Courfeyrac_!” 

“Grantaire,” he said gently, willing that his voice would remain steady, “I feel like I’m about to throw up. I think I  am  going to throw up. I don’t know what’s going through your mind, but I really just want to go home.”

“Oh.” R looked relieved, the frown smoothening out on his face. Was he really that easy to convince? “Are you sure that’s all?” 

“Positive. Could you tell the others I left, please?” 

“Yeah. Okay.” He wrapped him up in a quick hug, the safety of his strong arms comforting him for the briefest it seconds. 

Courfeyrac smiled, already heading for the door. 

“Thanks, R. Enjoy the film.” 

Grantaire chuckled and shook his head. 

“I’m fucking terrified of clowns. I don’t know why I let them bully me into coming.” 

As he was about to leave, Courfeyrac was struck with a certain idea to convince him again that he really was okay. He was supposed to be the jester of the group anyway. 

“Sit next to Enjolras,” he smirked, “you’ll be distracted enough then.” Grantaire’s laughter rang in the echoey bathroom, and he felt pleased with himself for a little while. 

Before the door swung shut again, he caught the other man’s shout, 

“Bastard!” 

“Aw, you’re sweet.” 

The smile that was plastered over his face dropped the second he stepped back out into the startling heat. Nothing good lasted long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self harm


	4. Chapter 4

Courfeyrac hadn’t slipped any further down for a while now. Two weeks had passed since the cinema trip, and since then he’d been able to convince his friends he was okay. To his credit, Grantaire did still seem mildly concerned about him, but that he could work with. 

However that wasn’t to say he’d been getting better. No, it was more like when there’s a bout of bad weather that just doesn’t ever seem to go away. You slowly adapt to it, it becomes the new norm, and while it may be frustrating you can learn to live with it. When it finally disappears, things either get better or worse, and unfortunately for Courfeyrac, he had been in this situation far too many times. 

After a particularly bad day, or week, or sometimes even months, he seemed to come to a standstill. Nothing when any further downhill for a little while, and he would just be stuck in a certain frame of mind. And each time he’d hope that he could find the strength to work his way back up, but whenever he made an effort to begin that climb, he lost his footing and sunk even lower. 

At the moment, he was balancing precariously where he stood, waiting for that one thing to hit him like a weight and send him back down. He wasn’t sure which was worse, waiting with baited breath for the moment, or the time when it came. 

He’d given up smoking around a year and a half ago, when Enjolras had asked him to try. He’d been skeptic at first of it, not wanting Enjolras to control what he did, but then his older brother had been caught with lung cancer. It had been a shock for the whole family, especially since he hadn’t even known Matthew had smoked, and it was around the time his depression had begun to spiral more dangerously. He’d often wondered if the death of the death of his bother had really been the turning point in his life. And not the good kind. 

So after those first few weeks, and they were some of the darkest times in his life, he’d resolved to try and quit. Enjolras had been thrilled when he suggested it, and he’d be devastated now if he knew that he’d been unable to resist for at least six months. 

In fact it was when he was rummaging through his draws, searching for a lighter, that he came across the watch. It was an expensive one, and it belonged to Enjolras. It was quite old and had belonged to his dad and he couldn’t quite remember how it had ended up in his room, but knew that Enjolras was probably going ballistic looking for it. 

He knew he should return it, and he even had a spare key to his apartment so it wouldn’t be difficult to drop by and return it. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Going to see Enjolras was probably one of the things he enjoyed the most, and he was secretly glad on the rare occasions when it was just the two of them. Obviously he loved Combeferre with all his heart-he loved all his friends-but Enjolras was different. He was so unbelievably selfless, and when comfortable he had a wicked sense of humour. Oh and he was drop dead gorgeous. Like a god or something. 

In another, taller life, Enjolras would have definitely been a model. Well, he could anyway, although the camera crews would probably be too absorbed in his beauty to be able to focus properly. 

These thoughts continued to whirl around like a storm in his brain as he made the drive to Enjolras’s. He’d been so many times it was practically etched into his memory, and he couldn’t help smiling in despite of himself. Not many people kept such a close bond with someone for such a long time. Since they were eight years old! That in itself was keeping him going which, granted, might be kind of sad, but it made him smile and that was rare enough these days. 

Enjolras’s little red car was parked on the driveway, so he was definitely home. Courfeyrac fished around in his jean pockets for his spare key, and unlocked the door silently. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, maybe to make him jump or something; despite his terrifying persona he was surprisingly easy to jump up on, especially on a morning before he’d had his ten cups of coffee. 

He didn’t call out when he stepped inside, creeping down the hallway to the kitchen. The door was half open, and he was about to open it when he was stopped by the scene in front of him. 

Enjolras was sat on his counter, his eyes fluttered shut and one hand threaded through someone’s black curls. Black curls that belonged unmistakably to Grantaire. For a second he just stared, a lump rising in his throat. They hadn’t noticed him, and were making out fiercely, pressed against each other with huge grins visible even with their lips locked together. 

And until now, Courfeyrac had never fully understood the true meaning of heartbreak. But right there, he could have sworn he heard the shatter of his heart, heard it break into a thousand pieces too small to ever be put back together again. The pain tore him apart piece by piece, shattering his soul beyond what he thought was possible. His heart felt empty, missing its beat, full of a pain beyond explanation. It sat in his chest like a glass shard, digging deeper and deeper until he was only left with questions that he would never be able to answer. 

When would he be enough? 

Never. He couldn’t compete with Grantaire. He was smart and beautiful, glittering eyes and a grin that forced a smile onto your own face. He painted and sang with such beauty, when Courfeyrac took his anger and pain and soul-crushing sadness out on himself because he couldn’t find that beauty. Not in himself, not in the world, nowhere. 

He felt weird stood there, seeing something that wasn’t meant for anyone’s eyes but theirs. He was intruding, his own empty sadness would ruin their happiness if they saw him, so he gently backtracked, tears prickling in his eyes. He placed the watch on a table and slid silently out of the house. 

He barely even registered the ride home, his mind felt completely shut off, his vision blurred with unshed tears. And the whole time there was just this dull ache in his chest that would build up and explode in a painful burst. He pulled into his drive, the familiar sense of a home he wasn’t happy in, of a body he couldn’t stand hitting him like a weight. 

He let his head hit the steering wheel, body wracking sobs shaking him. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, because Enjolras could never love him. Enjolras loved  _Grantaire_.  Grantaire who mocked his ideals and laughed at his revolutionary fervour. Grantaire who believed in nothing. And Courfeyrac wanted to hate him, to never have to smile at him again. But he couldn’t hate him. No matter how much he wanted to, R was too kind to hate. He’d do anything for Enjolras if he asked, and he deserved him. He deserved someone to truly love. Even if Courfeyrac wasn’t that person. 

But that didn’t numb the sadness. He didn’t know what could. He cried until there were no more tears, and even then he shook, head beating against his skull. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep pretending that everything was okay. Because the world no longer seemed magical, the sky no longer seemed limitless. Depression had a floor, a rock bottom and now that he’d hit it, it should be a relief. Now he had something to help him stand up, instead of just drowning. But the moment he began that process, everything seemed to repeat. And it was so exhaustingly draining, so heart clenching, that he had no strength left, no reason to want to get better. 

Surely he couldn’t anymore. Not when seeing the man he loved kissing someone else, someone that wasn’t him, was too painful. And there was a time when he was a close to becoming that person, and maybe if they’d both worked a little harder, been a little less afraid, it could have been real. 

He was fooling himself though. He knew it hadn’t really meant anything. Enjolras hadn’t really meant anything by it, just a favour he’d not realised had made such an impact on him. 

_ Ten years ago  _

_ They were sat on Enjolras’s bed after school. His parents were out and they were supposed to be doing homework. Well, he was doing homework, which was a rare enough conversation in itself, but Enjolras was staring out of the window almost aimlessly.  _

_Courfeyrac glanced up, completely entranced by the way the afternoon sunlight bounced of his hair. It was practically a halo, and his white shirt only added to the effect that he was_ _literally an angel._

_ He had such a huge crush on his best friend that it was getting almost painful to keep as secret. He knew that if he told Enjolras, he’d think no different of him. He’d maybe blush, fidget with the edge of his shirt and kindly say he didn’t feel the same. So really, there wasn’t much point in embarrassing himself.  _

“ _Stop thinking so loud. I can’t work.” He laughed, punching Enjolras lightly on the shoulder. He frowned at him but he could tell there was still something on his mind. So Courfeyrac let his papers drop to the floor and shuffled closer to him, letting his head rest on his shoulder. And if his heart rate sped up, well, nobody needed to know that._

_ “What’s up?”  _

_Enjolras sighed and shook his golden curls, his gaze falling to his hands, which were nervously clasped together._ Courfeyrac knew this was a sign of his _distress and immediately laced their fingers together, chuckling as he felt Enjolras’s shoulders relax._

_ “It’s stupid.” He mumbled almost incoherently, stroking the back of Courfeyrac’s hand. It was only a friendly gesture, one he, Enj and Ferre all shared, but it didn’t help that the very moment sent the butterflies wild in his stomach.  _

_ “It’s okay. You can tell me.”  _

“Promise you won’t laugh?” 

_Courfeyrac smiled at his friend’s innocence, and nodded._ “P _romise.”_

_ Enjolras didn’t look reassured, and he held out his pinky finger, his eyes pleading.  _

_ “Pinky promise?”  _

_ He couldn’t help the small bubble of laughter that escaped, and he bit his lip to try and hold it in. He wasn’t exactly laughing at him, just at how barely anything had changed since being a kid. This had always been Enjolras’s way of sealing a promise, and though it may seem strange to anyone else, to Courfeyrac it was special.  _

“ _You’re laughing at me now!” Enjolras pouted, looking so much like a little puppy that Courf just couldn’t resist ruffling his hair affectionately. He’d always been the most physically intimate with Enjolras, and it wasn’t odd for them to drape themselves over each other even in public, which obviously made people_

_ mistake them as a couple. Enjolras would always laugh and nudge him on these occasions, and he would play along, but inside it was breaking him.  _

“ _No I’m not laughing, see?” He bit his cheek and focused on keeping his face neutral. “I pinky promise, okay?”_

_ “I’ve never kissed anyone.” Enjolras turned beet red and looked away, clearly embarrassed. Courfeyrac just blinked.  _

_ “So?”  _

_ “Well have you?” Enjolras said pointedly, as if he was trying to prove a point. Although he really didn’t understand why.  _

“ _No,” he grinned, flinging an arm around his shoulder and pulling him closer. “Why?”_

_ Enjolras sat up straighter, his eyebrows drawn close together as he frowned worriedly.  _

_ “It’s probably stupid, but do you think we could...”  _

_ “What? Kiss?”  _

_ There was no way he was thinking straight. No way in the world did those words just come out of Enjolras’s mouth.  _

_ “I mean platonically, of course!” Enjolras clarified, and although he should have seen it coming, the words still hurt.  _

_ “Well obviously.” He giggled.  _

_It was true that he’d never kissed anyone_ _either, but he didn’t quite realise just how_ _nerve wracking it was. Especially since he’d spent a lot of time hoping for a situation like this. Enjolras moves closer, placing a hand at the nape of his neck, and Courfeyrac placed his hands on his waist._

_ His heart was beating frantically and he was so close to Enjolras that he could count every freckle on his cheek, feel his warm breath on his cheek that smelt of the sweet coffee they’d both been drinking. He didn’t assume that Enjolras would be the first one to make a move, so he surprised when he felt his lips on his own.  _

_ It was gentle at first, both of them too tentative and nervous to go much further, but Enjolras tasted of vanilla and coffee, his strawberry scented locks brushing his cheeks, and pretty soon he was sure they weren’t just kissing platonically anymore. Enjolras seemed to grow more desperate, both arms twining round his neck, and Courfeyrac bit his lower lip playful, which made him giggle happily. When they finally broke apart for air, he chanced a look up. Enjolras was still staring at him, blue eyes wide and a smile playing at his lips.  _

_ And Courfeyrac could only gaze into those eyes, both of them edging closer. And maybe it could have lead to something else, something more, but Enjolras dropped back to his knees, glancing at his watch.  _

_ “What time did Ferre say he was coming?”  _

_ And if was as if he’d already forgotten about the kiss and the moment to discuss what really happened had passed, and somehow he didn’t think it would be right to bring it back up. He couldn’t push it out of his mind the whole evening, and that night was when he truly realised how deep his feelings ran for Enjolras.  _

Now

And even all these years later, Courfeyrac would still sometimes feel his mind wandering back to that afternoon. Could it have meant something? Maybe, probably not. And it wasn’t like he could dwell on it now anymore, especially since Enjolras was kissing somebody else. 

The pain in his chest renewed, startling him with its new intensity, and he shook his head frustratedly.

_ He doesn’t love you! Get over it.  _

And curled up on his bathroom for a few hours later, Courfeyrac realised he’d tipped over the edge again, and maybe for good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I just wanted to apologise. This is set in America, and I’ve tried to include American language and stuff in it but I’m not sure on the spelling of certain words, so if seems like I’m sort of switching between American and British I’m sorry   
> Thanks :)


	5. Chapter 5

The rest of the week had seemed to pass by in a strange sort of haze. It was like he was just going through the motions of living, never really seeing the world around him. And before he knew it, Wednesday had crept back up on him, meaning that in just over an hour there was another meeting. 

The meetings had come to be something he dreaded, which hurt him more than he could explain because they were what he’d always enjoyed most. He used to love getting the chance to speak his mind, give his own thoughts on the corrupt society systems they lived with. And ever since he’d been little he’d dreamed of being able to make a change to the world. 

So he’d worked relentlessly, even when he lost motivation temporarily, because he always found it again. And he’d worked to get his grades up to be a good student even when he struggled, and he never asked for help. He had spent every moment making sure he was doing the right thing. But things were different now. He couldn’t find his words, couldn’t tear his eyes away from Enjolras, and he was becoming more like Grantaire’s earlier toxic form. 

He never spoke out against anyone, but sometimes a thought would cross his mind. They were never usually big ones, but he’d find himself thinking;  _ Enjolras has no idea.  _

He was naive and he didn’t realise it. The world was spoiled already, and maybe they could change it one day, but now? No. They were too young, their lives too unimportant to be able to make the front page or catch anyone’s attention. And he’d stared blankly at his paper for hours now, trying to conjure up something. He’d already skipped his speech twice and he could tell Enjolras was steadily becoming more irritated with him; he was short tempered around him, hanging out less. And it was only a slow process but if neither of them did anything soon they were doing to drift away completely. 

But still he couldn’t find the words. It was like someone had drained his mind of anything that had ever ever made him happy and he was left only with a swirling black abyss. Emptiness was it’s own form of comfort. 

Seven o’clock seemed to drift around the corner quicker than he would have liked, and with it brought another round of anxiety and discomfort. He’d not been able to write anything as good as he used to be able to, he’d got down an few notes that he could probably extend on after Combeferre spoke. They had sort of an unspoken agreement on the order which they would take their turns to speak. Enjolras usually went either first or last, followed by Ferre, himself and Jehan. Then it would be Feuilly, Cosette, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel and Marius. Grantaire rarely used his own time and often interrupted whatever Enjolras had to say, and though Eponine’s arguments were less sharp, easier to poke holes in, she was similar. 

And between them they had so many arguments-almost anything they could bicker about-and a lot of the time their words would be spiteful and cruel, and maybe it was just the selfish side of him that wondered how they could ever work out to be a couple. But the rational side of him knew that they would manage it, and it was only his jealousy taking the better of him. 

The sky had clouded over, a sort of cold dryness hanging in the air, and Courfeyrac pulled his coat tighter around himself as he reached the Musain door. He paused for a moment, taking the time to let out a ragged breath, and pushed open the door. 

He was hit with the warm scent of freshly baked cookies, a sweet aroma filling his nostrils, and for a second, it almost felt normal. Like home. Musichetta stood behind the counter, polishing a glass and re-arranging the baked goods on a tray, all the while hanging onto Enjolras’s every word. His friends were all seated near the back of the room, huddled around tables and mis-matched chairs and he felt a tightness in his chest. 

But then Enjolras glanced up, his eyebrows raising questioningly, though he said nothing. 

_ Why are you late?  _ He was thinking. 

But he didn’t have to say it, because what else could be expected of him? This was who he’d become; the late, lazy guy who falls behind and doesn’t give ideas of the rallies. And somehow the silence was more deafening than anything Enjolras could have said. 

Well, maybe he was wrong. 

“Courfeyrac, i thought you weren’t going to make it.” His voice wasn’t accusing, but it was filled with a disappointment and sort of resigned tiredness that was too obvious to miss. He didn’t expect anything from him anymore. He and Combeferre had always been second in command in a way, not officially, but on the rare occasions that Enjolras had been physically forced into bed due to a sickness that he’d deny until it killed him, he and Ferre had always been the ones to lead those protests. 

Now he could see he’d lost that position, that unspoken privilege, and surely the others would hate him now too. But he did have something to help redeem himself; his speech. Well, notes. But what difference did it make? He had them, unlike every other week, and maybe that would show he wasn’t completely worthless. 

Well he was, but they didn’t need to know that. 

Combeferre had just spoken, so he knew he would be up in a moment, but he took a seat anyway right at the back of the room, and waited for the signal to begin. However it never came. Instead, Jehan bounced to the front, a pink card in his hand that he glanced at every so often. 

For a second he just stared. There must have been a mistake-this was his turn. But then the reality hit him. They weren’t giving him one. They’d not expected him to bother, or even show up! Was that really how they saw him? Lazy, arrogant and useless? And he’d tried  _so fucking hard_ , forcing his smiles and laughing at jokes even when he could feel his insides freezing up. He’d pushed through more than he could take, slipping deeper below the surface each time he’d failed to reach out. 

They wanted him to be happy, and now that he wasn’t they didn’t care about him. The Courfeyrac they knew grinned and smiled with confidence. The Courfeyrac they knew would sing with Jehan, tease Enjolras and try, and always fail, to wrestle with Bahorel. 

And sure, he’d give anything to find that part of himself again, but he couldn’t. He hadn’t seen it for a long time now, and the Courfeyrac that they now knew skipped meetings and never went out. Didn’t talk much and became unreliable. And it wasn’t his fault! 

Was it? He didn’t know anymore. Everything was spinning and no one cared and he just didn’t want to have to carry on. He’d always used to claw his way back up with the thought of the grief he might bring on his friends if he were to die. Because surely, even if they became frustrated with him, they would be sad if he wasn’t there? And he wasn’t saying they  _ wanted  _ him to be gone now, but they’d go to his funeral and lay some flowers down and maybe shed a tear or two. But soon enough they’d get back to before, writing speeches and essays and trying to make change. He was no use to anyone anymore. 

Courfeyrac tried to swallow his disappointment, letting his eyes focus on the ground, and tried not to let his emotions show. It was his own fault anyway; he should have tried harder, shown he could do this, and then maybe they would haven’t forgotten about him. 

Not even forgotten. They’d just replaced him with Jehan. And maybe that was better. Jehan was sweet and gentle, but he was also quick witted and intrepid, never missing anything. He would be better than he was, anyone could see that, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. And suddenly he was angry. Angry because no one had given him a second thought, no one had even thought he would show up, let alone give his speech. And sure, he was partly to blame, but up until recently he never missed meetings! Years and years of hard work and dedication, and no one had thought it unusual that he was becoming less regular. 

And if they did notice, then they clearlydidn’t care. It was obvious he wasn’t okay! Surely if they were his friends they’d be able to see that. He could count on one hand the amount of times he’d smiled this month, even less the times he’d laughed. And that wasn’t odd? Not to them apparently. 

He paid little to no attention to the rest of the meeting afterwards. He didn’t see the point and no one seemed to say anything to him, thought he noticed a few side glances thrown his way when they thought he wasn’t looking. The only thing he concentrated on was the way Enjolras’s hair caught the light, shimmers of gold surrounding his face like a halo, and his vividly blue eyes alight with a passion that he wasn’t listening to. 

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do; probably lock himself in the dark of his room and try to forget everything. Forget that no one cared about him, forget how he’d messed up his friendships and his life, forget that he was in love with Enjolras; a man who would never feel the same for him. Forget it all, even just for a moment. 

He tried to do that now, but he was surrounded by the very things he wanted to pretend were a part of someone else’s life. But he couldn’t, because Combeferre was too kind, and Jehan too sweet. Feuilly worked so hard and  _ he  _ hadn’t crumbled to this mess, Joly was afraid of every possible disease but  _ he _ could take care of himself. But none of it really mattered because he wasn’t them, he couldn’t have their lives or their happiness and it was too much. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think and no one cared. No one ever did and he’d had enough. He could end it tonight for all it was worth, and he didn’t see why not. Everything was suddenly too bright and the ringing in his ears had returned, drumming against his forehead and the room was swaying. 

Too loud, too tight, and his airways were closing up, the walls drawing closer and closer and then-

“-Courfeyrac!” 

It all stopped. 

He looked around and twelve pairs of eyes were fixed on him, each filled with frustration. He couldn’t even think what he’d done wrong. 

“What?”

“Aren’t you listening? It’s quite rude, you know.” 

Joly was sat with his arms folded, eyes narrowed, and looking at him with such disapproval that he shrunk back in his seat. 

“Sorry. What were you saying?” 

Joly sighed again, this time his eyes rolling with it. “Not me. E and R.” 

He looked up to the front and immediately felt his stomach drop. They were stood closer together, both their eyes shining with such happiness that Courfeyrac knew immediately what was coming. He swallowed and hoped the sadness wasn’t showing on his own face. 

His eyes met Grantaire’s, who’s were practically glowing, joy etched into every part of his being. Enjolras shared the same excitement, his hand finding Grantaire’s and clasping tightly around it, and it was like a knife to his heart. 

“We’re together!” Grantaire blurted out, and Enjolras grinned alongside him, both men then immediately crushed as everyone darted forwards to hug them. Everyone except himself. 

He watched as his friends squealed in delight, congratulating the two, Bahorel immediately going to fetch some wine from behind the bar, Musichetta complying without complain. He glared at the spot of dirt next to his shoe, only looking up when someone coughed expectantly above him. 

The first person he noticed was Jehan. He was glowering at him, angry in a way he’d never seen before. Jehan wasn’t an angry person; he’d stomp his foot and complain loudly, but he rarely shouted. But from the look on his face, Courfeyrac was sure he was about to murder him. 

A few meters away, still clinging tightly to his new boyfriend-  _ boyfriend _ , that hurt to himself think-was Enjolras, sadness flickering across his face for just a second. It was masked the next, but Courfeyrac knew he’d hurt him. Oh well, he shouldn’t care, Enjolras had done the same to him. 

(He did care. Very, very much). 

“What the hell is your problem?” 

Jehan was glaring at him, his big eyes narrowed and shining. Courfeyrac shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing off. He couldn’t deal with this yet. He supposed he would have to apologise to Enjolras and Grantaire soon, but he could worry about that later. He wasn’t even sure R had realised, but he owed him an apology even so. 

“Look me in the fucking eyes when I’m speaking to you.” Jehan snapped, his hand slamming down on the table next to him, yellow nail polish and jewellery suddenly seeing like it didn’t belong there. He flinched, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He wouldn’t cry. 

So he looked up, meeting Jehan’s eyes which were burning so viciously with anger that he wished he’d never seen. That anger and frustration, hate and disbelief was all aimed at him. All channeled towards him. And that was when he knew he’d gone maybe too far to fix what he’d ruined. 

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly, all to aware of the fact that the entire room had fallen silent, were hanging on to the entire conversation. 

“No. Don’t apologise to me.” Jehan said coldly, his bitter laugh echoing around the room. He suddenly felt hot, like the temperature had risen considerably in the room and he dropped his gaze again, feeling Jehan’s eyes burn into him. 

“I’m  _sorry_.”  He repeated, voice cracking on the last syllable. 

“I said don’t apologise to me!” Jehan said cruelly, coldly, “you either walk over there and apologise to Enjolras and Grantaire, give them your congratulations, and you better bloody mean it. Or,” he paused viciously, voice dripping with so much anger that Courfeyrac was practically shaking, “you can walk out of this room right now. You do not get to sit here feeling sorry for yourself!” 

He didn’t reply. He swallowed and continued to stare at the ground, his vision blurred with tears. 

“Courfeyrac, look me in the fucking eyes!” Jehan shouted, with such venom, such hatred, that Courfeyrac couldn’t think of anything to do but listen to him. He was shaking, his heart beating at a thousand miles per hour, breathing ragged and uneven, and he was so, so broken. 

He glanced up, meeting Jehan dead in the eye, and pushed himself up from where he sat. He kept his eyes trained on him for a few seconds before deliberately turning on his heel. He felt the twelve pairs of eyes still boring into him, whispers of anger flying around the room as he let the Musain door slam shut behind him. 

It had started to rain again, trickling down his neck and shoulders, chilling him to the bone and making him cold in a way he’d never been cold before. 

It was like he was walking a path to destruction. He’d ruined his friendships with practically everyone, severed the rope holding him and Enjolras together after  _ fifteen fucking years  _ of knowing each other. 

And for what? Because he couldn’t be happy for him when he finally got what he wanted? Because he was so in love with him that maybe distancing himself was the only way he could ever go on. 

No that wasn’t it. It was more than that. He wanted to be close with Enjolras, lay on each other’s laps and kiss each other’s cheeks like they had always done. He wanted to be able to share his secrets, secrets that weren’t dark and scary and heavy, and laugh with him until their stomachs ached. But even if they hadn’t fallen apart, even if nothing had changed, he wouldn’t be able to do those things. And why? 

Grantaire. 

It wouldn’t be fair. It would be tormenting and mean, throwing their friendship in his face and letting him wonder what it really meant. Nothing, obviously. But would he see it that way? Probably not. And as much as he loved him, he would not be the cause of their break up. 

So if pretending he didn’t exist, watching from afar, ruining the one good thing left in his messed up life was the only to make sure it didn’t happen...

Oh it would destroy him, sure. But he would know that it had been his own doing, not Enjolras’s, and maybe that would be enough. 

It wouldn’t be. He knew that. And it would probably get the better of him eventually, but he’d have to worry about that later. He would put Enjolras and his happiness before his own any day. 

He could barely distinguish the difference between his tears and the rain now, and he couldn’t find it in his self to care. He didn’t have anywhere in particular he needed to be, and anywhere was better than home. Home, he would lock himself alone and drink and hurt himself to try and lessen the pain, focus on something else. And he probably still would, it had become sort of a routine now, but he was in no hurry. 

When he reached the nearest bus stop, he sunk onto the bench, head dropping to his knees, and he let the sobs wrack his body. He was so tired of pretending. He couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t  _ want  _ to do it any more. Did he have to? 

His question was answered in little under half an hour. 

He’d been hunched in the same position for too long, his neck was hurting and his limbs had become stiff, but he was in no position to move. He felt weak and light-headed, exhaustion overcoming his body. He was well prepared to just spend the night here-he doubted sleep would come anyway-and with the way his luck was going, he’d probably left his key at the Musain or some shit. But he saw something shift in the corner of his eye, saw a figure walk towards him. 

And even if the movement hadn’t alerted him simply because he’d been sat alone for hours, he’d have recognised those golden curls, even sopping wet. But for once, Enjolras was the very last person he wanted to see. 

He ignored him for as long as possible, aware that it was only putting an even bigger strain on whatever was left of their friendship. Probably nothing. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Enjolras said eventually. His voice was level, but there was a layer of anger underneath, being forced not to bubble to the surface that he couldn’t miss. He didn’t think anyone could. Enjolras had never been able to hide his anger, and if it wasn’t given away in his voice, it always was in his eyes. 

They’d grow wider for a split second, and then narrow down, swirling masses of blue that reflected fire and danger. He used to be frightened when he saw Enjolras give that look to people, pray he would never have to endure it himself, but now he wasn’t even worried. He was past the point of caring, too tired and hopeless to even try and point the finger away from him. 

_ Let him hurt me _ _,_ Courfeyrac thought bitterly,  _he can’t say anything I’ve not already thought myself._

He didn’t answer Enjolras but he continued anyway. 

“Haven’t you already messed up enough? Why try and ruin my life too?” 

“You think I’m trying to ruin your life?” He laughed, but it was more like a bark; sharp and pained. He hated the way it showed in his voice, but one of them were going to get hurt tonight, and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be Enjolras. So why try and hide it now? 

“Well what else would you still be here for?” Enjolras snarled, his bottom lip curling up in a cruel grimace. “It’s not like you even show up half the time anyway.” 

“I’m surprised you even noticed.” He spat back, getting up to leave. If that was what he thought, fine. He didn’t need to hear any more. 

“Don’t fucking walk away. I’m not done.” 

“Oh yeah?” He yelled, turning and clenching his hands into fists, “what else have you got to say? What else can you possibly dig up to throw in my face?” 

“Throw in your face? You’re the one who never bothers to make an appearance half the time. And when you  _do_ ,  you reek of alcohol and cigarette smoke.” 

“What has that got to do with anything?” He asked incredulously. Was he seriously commenting on his coping mechanisms? Would he rather he show up with puffy eyes and tears still in his eyes. Would he rather he broke down sobbing in the middle of a meeting because he couldn’t even stand to be in his own skin? 

“You promised me you’d stop smoking! And you told me you did. So you lied. And not to mention that you don’t bother to even write your speeches anymore. Why are you even here?” 

“Not everything is about you!” He snapped, head reeling with anger, “it’s not like you care anyway. You could have asked me if I was okay, or why I started smoking again. And did you? No. You just stand there and glare at me like I’m the dirt beneath your shoe and completely ignore me. Like everyone does!” 

“Oh grow up, Courfeyrac!” Enjolas sneered, his face flushing red. He looked furious, water dripping down his forehead and eyes as dangerous as the sky above them. “You contribute nothing. You’re lazy, you’re useless and you have no thought for anyone but yourself!” 

That hit him like a bullet because he  _ did  _ care. He cared too much. He cared enough to make sure he didn’t ruin the light of Enjolras’s life with his own sadness. But of course he couldn’t see that. 

“You have no idea what it’s been like for me!” He said coldly, “No idea.” 

“Oh what?” Enjolras laughed mirthlessly. And he’d always known he was capable of being terrible, but he’d never quite imagined this much. This wasn’t the same boy he’d grown up with, the same boy who punched the bullies that had tormented Courfeyrac when he was outed by someone. And time could change people, he knew that, but he’d never seen anyone switch as quickly as he did now. “What could possibly be wrong with your life?” 

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. And Enjolras just growled under his breath and ploughed on, unaware of the damage he was doing. “You have a perfect life. You have friends who care about you, money, family. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Friends who care about me?” He scoffed, tears beginning to slide down his cheeks. “Is that why every single one of them sat by and watched as Jehan kicked me out of the fucking Musain?” 

“ _He kicked you out because you bloody deserved_ it !” Enjolras hissed, “don’t you dare insult them! They’ve done nothing wrong!” 

“Apart from forget about me! Don’t think I didn’t realise you gave my speech slot to Jehan!” 

“That really bothers you? Courfeyrac that’s nothing compared to how you’ve been acting! Why don’t you try and actually write something if it bothers you that much. Then you can complain.” His nostrils were flared, eyebrows raised so far they were in danger of disappearing into his hairline. He had no idea, no fucking clue of what he was doing. 

“Oh yeah?” He pulled out the crumpled piece of paper he’d written his notes down on earlier and thrust it into his face. “What’s this then?” 

He watched Enjolras scan the paper, eyes flying across the page, and saw the cruel smirk fall back into place. 

“That’s not a speech. That’s a few notes you probably made whilst someone else was speaking.” 

Was he being serious? Did he really not even believe he was capable of this. Of anything? He felt like someone had stomped on his heart, laughing as he scrambled around for the shattered pieces. He snatched the paper back, tearing into into shreds and letting them fall to the ground, ink running in tears down the page as the rain soaked it. 

“I’m fed up of you acting like this. We all are.” Enjolras said, glancing down at the smudged writing on the floor for a second. “What happened to you? You’re turning into-“

“-into who?” He laughed coldly, head spinning as he tried to comprehend how someone who could be so selfless could also be so awful. “Grantaire? But not the Grantaire you care about, obviously. The one who you yelled at, the one you shouted at for drinking when he only did that so he could forget his own pain! You didn’t help him! He had to figure it out himself. He wasn’t good enough for you then, was he? He’s only good enough for you now that he’s happy and clean. You couldn’t deal with the depressed side of him, could you? 

“It would have-“

“-distracted you? Taken your eyes away from the Cause for too long? Unless it’s giving you good representation, you don’t care!” It wasn’t true, not really. He didn’t really think Enjolras knew much of what was going on, and nobody had told him in fear of how he’d react. He’d either pretend it wasn’t happening, or do everything he could to help. It wasn’t a chance worth taking in the end. 

“You know thats not true!” Enjolras yelled back, his chest heaving as he grew even more furious. “It’s not my fault you’ve ended up like this. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You’re lazy, arrogant and you help nobody! And that’s on you. You and your selfish-“ 

He didn’t even realise he’d hit him until his palm was stinging and Enjolras had let out a muffled grunt. He turned back sharply, a red mark visible high on his cheekbone. He reeled from the shock. He’d never really lashed out at anyone before, and never dreamed of Enjolras being the person at the receiving end of his anger anyway. 

They’d both messed up for good now, he knew that, but this wasn’t his fault! True, he could have tried to explain, but Enjolras would never have understood. He was too privileged, too perfect to have to worry about being happy. It just came naturally to him. 

He was so lost in his thoughts, that when Enjolras’s hands slammed into his chest, the breath was sucked from his body. He stumbled backwards, crashing into the side of the bus shelter and felt a sharp pain shoot up his left arm. Enjolras looked murderous, glaring down at him from where he stood. His chest was heaving, icy fires raging in his eyes, and he breathed out his words through such gritted teeth that Courfeyrac almost didn’t catch them. 

“Stay the fuck away from me.” 

He didn’t know how long he stayed where he was, curled up with his back against the glass of the shelter. Time meant nothing. All that he knew was that it was still raining, like the sky was crying with him. 

How had it come to this? 

He’d lost everything; his brother, his fight, his passion and now, finally, his best friend. 

The words began to sink in deeper, burying the self in the place where his happiness has once been. 

_ Enjolras hates you.  _

_ He doesn’t want you in his life.  _

Nobody needed him in their lives. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, Enjolras was right; he was useless. And he’d known that for quite some time, but he’d always thought that if he could just keep telling himself it wasn’t true, they  _ did  _ need him, he’d be able to hold on. 

But when would he have to let go? He couldn’t keep pretending forever. And eventually Les Amis De L’ABC would have to go their separate ways. Maybe not any time soon, but it had to happen. Friendships broke and people moved on, he’d accepted that. So when it finally happens, would he be able to keep going. 

No. He would have no reason to. 

And if they already hated him now, if he’d already lost everything that mattered to him, did he need to go on? 

His hands shook so much he could barely get the key in his door, and by the time he stumbled into the apartment, he had only one thought on his mind. 

The bathroom light was still on, thought he could have sworn he turned it off before he left. It didn’t matter, it made no difference. The little packet of razor blades were still strewn on the floor from the previous night, and took little effort to get a firm grip on one. 

If he’d had the time, the effort or the energy to do so, he would have ran a bath to make sure he did the job properly. But in his case, he could barely think, so this would have to do. 

There was no paper in the room, so he couldn’t even write a letter or a note or anything. But if he did, he might have chickened out, and he knew he didn’t have the strength to go through another day. 

Another day of pretending, of drowning, of being so unable to find the person he used to be. The person everyone used to like. They didn’t like the new him, but he couldn’t change that. Not now. He’d gone too far under. 

The door wasn’t locked, but he didn’t see why it should make any real difference. And if anyone were to break in anyway, they’d probably clear the scene quite quickly. It wasn’t like it would affect him anyway. 

He looked up at himself in the mirror, and it was as if everything he hated about himself was highlighted, pointed out to him. He didn’t want to live like this, in pain, and he could finally,  _ finally  _ let go of it all. 

No more pain, no more regret and hatred. Death was silent and unfeeling, and he was grateful for the peace it would bring. 

He needed to do it, end this game that he was playing with his own mind was playing with him. There was no point, he’d lost that game a long time ago. But...

But he just wanted Enjolras. But he couldn’t have him. He was happily in a relationship and even if he wasn’t, he hated him. He’d told him so himself. And those weren’t words likely to erase themselves from his mind any time soon. He just needed someone to tell him he could do this, he was worth it. That he was worth more than what he was about to do. 

He was messing with his head, he knew that. If anyone really cared, they’d have told him by now. And as it was, nobody had. 

He barely noticed anything now, it was too hazy, the pain in his heart and his chest and his mind too strong. To persuasive. And he was weak enough to give in. He wasn’t crying anymore, the familiar numbness washing over him, and for just a moment he felt nothing. 

Nothing except the hot blood that ran in rivers down his arms, the cold tiles of his floor and a warm tingling that promised death. 

Somewhere in the distance, he pretended he could hear someone calling. They called his name, but it was too far away and it wasn’t real. 

No one had come to get him. And he didn’t want them to. 

He was out of pain at last...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...  
> Will he live? Will he die?  
> Tell me what you think will happen, id love to hear your guesses  
> But IM SORRY. I’m really not being kind to him am I? Poor Courf :(  
> The next chapter should be updated pretty soon  
> Thanks for reading :) 
> 
> Also I’m useless and don’t know how to add links BUT my tumblr is: itisthefuturethattheybring 
> 
> I really don’t know how to add like links and stuff so sorryyy


	6. Chapter 6

His head was ringing. A long, pitched beeping that was incessantly beating against his forehead and drilling into his skull. 

He opened his eyes. 

He wished he couldn’t. 

The bright light of the room was blinding, and he didn’t know where he was until his eyes began to adjust, the foul scent of disinfectant and sterilisation filling his nostrils. Courfeyrac tried to sit up but he couldn’t move; there was a scarily large amount of wires and machines hooked into him and he wanted to cry. 

He wasn’t supposed to be here!  _ How  _ was he here? He’d been alone, cold...

It wasn’t raining anymore. He could see that it was bright outside, the sun beating down on the pavements outside the hospital window, and if his life had been a movie he would have said it was a sign of a new beginning, new light. But this wasn’t a movie. This was his fucked up life and  _he was supposed to be dead_! 

Surviving hadn’t been an option he’d even considered, even less of one he’d wanted. Because even deep down inside of him, he hadn’t wanted anyone to find him. There hadn’t been a single part of him that wanted to resist so why, why, _why_ couldn’t he have been granted just that? Was it really so much to ask? 

A nurse walked into the room and she was talking but he wasn’t listening. She rambled on whilst he felt hot tears ran down his cheeks. How had anyone even got in? He’d...

He’d left the door unlocked. He  _ never  _ left the door unlocked and goddamn it, the one time he’d forgotten someone just had to waltz back into his life. Who? They’d all kicked him out, made it clear they hated him, so why? Why would anyone come to find him? 

“Courfeyrac?” 

His gaze snapped to the door and he felt his heart drop to his stomach. Enjolras; eyes wide and fearful, red rimmed and swollen. Dark bags circled his eyes and his hair was dishevelled and messy, mattered, and there was blood on his shirt. It wasn’t his own. 

Could-

Could  _ Enjolras  _ have been the person who found him? But why would he? 

‘ _Stay the fuck away from me’_

No. No Enjolras hated him. It didn’t make sense. And anyway, it didn’t mean he had to forgive him, did it? True, he’d said some pretty mean things himself but they were true. Enjolras didn’t know what he was talking about, and as much as Courfeyrac wanted to hate him he couldn’t. He loved him. He always would. 

But love doesn’t equal forgiveness. 

“Courf, I’m so sorry. I didn’t-I didn’t know.” He gestured weakly at his arms, and only then did he even notice they were bandaged up, unable to move. He suddenly felt awfully exposed, what he’d done on display for the world. He didn’t want Enjolras to see him. He didn’t want anyone to see him. 

He was the ‘happy’ one. 

“I know.” He replied, not quite meeting his gaze. A moment passed, filled with unspoken questions they continued to dance around, not sure how far would become too personal. Although to be fair, it wasn’t like he had any secrets left he didn’t know. 

Well. Apart from one. If Courfeyrac was asked if he would do it again should he have the chance, he would say no. And it would be a lie. But they didn’t need to know that. 

He wasn’t stupid, he knew that for a few weeks, maybe even months, he’d be treated carefully, people afraid to make their same mistakes. No ignoring, too much fussing, too much attention pinned on him. But eventually, like everything seemed to do, it would die out. Sure, they’d do the occasions check up on him now; 

_Remember? He tried to kill himself, let’s see if he’s fine. Oh look, he’s doing great, no need to worry ourselves._

And then everything would fall back into the same routine it had been making. And absolutely no way was he going through that again. And even if he did try to get better it would only be a matter of time before he did something stupid and sent it all crashing down again, so he didn’t see the point. Why push himself if he knew what the outcome was going to be? 

And oh, it was hard to keep pretending, keep forcing those smiles and laughs, but he wouldn’t have to do it for long. Hopefully. 

“Why did you come back?” He asked quietly, angrily. Just because he came back didn’t mean he had to forgive him. Not yet, anyway. 

Enjolras shuffled in his seat, his fingers playing with the edge of his hoodie. He swallowed, hands shaking ever so slightly. “I, um,” he said, voice catching and breaking, “I was going to give you this.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a pin. 

It was the colours of the French flag, or more specifically, the cockade that was worn by the revolutionaries of the failed June Rebellion. It was one of Enjolras’s favourite things, and Courfeyrac had given it to him personally. 

Enjolras had always had a love for revolutions and rebellions, and for some reason he was particularly inspired by the 1832 Rebellion. It had failed, everyone had died, but for some reason he was drawn to it, and Courfeyrac knew this. He never really said why he was so bothered by it, but he suspected it was their leaders passion and determination not to give up, even when they knew they would inevitably die. And maybe it was because he was so much alike that leader himself; passionate and furiously angry. So for his birthday one year Courfeyrac had given to him and he’d worn it pretty much ever since. 

And Enjolras came to give it back. He hadn’t gone to find him out of fear he might have done something awful, no. He’d gone to personally return it, throw it back in his face, and when he didn’t answer the door he’d  _ gone inside  _ to find him. He hadn’t settled with posting it through the letter box, no, he had to humiliate him, show that their friendship was over. And that was more painful then simply forgetting about him. 

“I didn’t-I was so angry, Courf!” Enjolras choked between sobs, tears glistening one his cheeks. He had no right to play the guilt card. No right! He was the one who had said those things, and  yes,  Courfeyrac hasn’t been kind either, but nothing he had said had been serious. And it was true. “And I wanted to...to make you see that...so I-and I’m so glad I did-I was going to give it back to you so you could...I don’t even know what I was thinking!” 

He looked so defeated, his shoulders slumped and shaking, forgetting to carry the world on them for just a moment. And if he’d just lied, just told him he’d stopped by to apologise or  _ anything else _ _,_ he would have forgiven him. And he still wanted to now, and he couldn’t really even explain why the cockade meant so much to him-it was a stupid pin-but it was like someone had tied a brick to his ankles and let him drown. 

He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. He was out of tears, had cried so many times before tonight that he didn’t think there could be any left to spill. 

“Please,” Enjolras sniffed, wiping at the tears on his face with shaking hands, “I didn’t mean it.” 

Courfeyrac opened his mouth as if to bite back a response but the words died in his throat. The anger has subsided but left behind a hollow grief that seemed to eat away at his insides. He suddenly couldn’t stand to speak to him anymore. 

“You did.” He said carefully, purposely avoiding his pained gaze. But he could see Enjolras shaking his head even in his peripheral vision, the gold curls fluttering limply. 

“No Courfeyrac, they weren’t true! I didn’t-“

“-They weren’t true, yes,” He interrupted, still doing his best to not look at him, “but you did mean them.” 

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras breathed, silent tears slipping out from under his closed eyes as he pleaded with him, “Courfeyrac, please.” 

He shook his head again. He surprised himself with what he’d said, though now he had he knew he was right. What Enjolras had said had been far from the truth, but he’d spat them out with such menace he’d believed them to be true. He’d meant them. He’d seen Courfeyrac as lazy and arrogant, and now he saw him as weak and depressed. 

He wasn’t happy. He wasn’t fun. He was the broken one they all had to be kind to because if they weren’t he might try to kill himself again and then they’d look like the bad ones. They weren’t, obviously, but they wouldn’t see that. He was just burdening them all by even going to those meetings. And Enjolras had seen that change in attitude and decided it was because he couldn’t be bothered, and he’d never once thought to ask why. 

He looked back up at him, noticing the pin still clutched loosely in his trembling hands. He reached forwards, as much as his bandaged arms let him, and for a second Enjolras face brightened as if he though he was going to take his hand, but then Courfeyrac took it from him and let it fall to his lap. He stared at it for a moment, remembering all the meetings Enjolras had worn it at, all the rallies he’d kept it on for comfort, and decided it was too painful to look at. Ignoring the slight tremor to his hands, he dumped it in the trash can next to his bed. 

He didn’t need to look back up at Enjolras. He heard the little gasp and felt the breeze the door sent as it slammed shut after him. And even then, no tears fell. 

It must have been only a few seconds that he’d been sat there, heart pumping and head pounding, when the door flew right open again. Despite his anger a part of him hoped it would be Enjolras, and when he it wasn’t he was more disappointed than he would have admit. 

He supposed he should have seen it coming; he’d made no real effort with him. But...

There were no buts. He could have tried at least a little. And okay, true, Enjolras didn’t seem to hate him anymore, (or at least not as much), and maybe that was something he could hold onto. However the real fear lay in the fact that he didn’t know what he would do when the ABC split off. He knew Jehan had always wanted to live in Paris, Cosette in London, and if they ever left...well, surely they couldn’t be the same. And then it would only be a matter of time before the rest started breaking off, going their own ways, and he’d be alone again. 

See it was a vicious cycle and he couldn’t escape it. Whichever way it played out, they were going to leave him. Maybe not soon, but then again maybe a lot earlier than he might expect, and there would be nobody to hold on for. And if...no,  when,  Enjolras left...

And this was why he’d wanted it all to end in the first place. It saved him the pain and heartache of stumbling through another agonising number of years that he didn’t want to see. 

But anyway, the person who barged into the room was not Enjolras, despite the angry spark that was usually seen in his eyes. No, the person was Grantaire, and it took him less than a second to take in how obviously furious he was. 

“Courfeyrac,” he growled, pacing the room for a few seconds before coming to a stop at the foot of his bed, “I am so, so sorry you’re feeling like this. But if you think for a moment that Enjolras meant even one of the things he said...”

“You weren’t there.” He mumbled, looking down at his hands, “You didn’t see how he looked.”

“I’ve fought with Enjolras enough times to know he says things he doesn’t mean. I think of all people, I’d know best.”

To be fair, he was probably right. But that didn’t mean he had to admit it. However, Grantaire did have some experience with Enjolras’s anger considering he’d spent the last three years usually being either on the receiving end of that anger or the person who caused it. So yes, Grantaire probably did know what he was talking about, but it didn’t make the situation any easier. 

Courfeyrac sighed and dropped his head against the backrest of his bed, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. He just wanted to be alone, to not have people telling him what to do and think for just a second. It was exhausting, and he was drained of any ounce of energy he’d ever possessed. 

“You didn’t...you didn’t  see  what he...how he looked...” He said quietly, the familiar feeling of his chest constricting returning. He couldn’t breathe properly and all he could see was the hatred that seemed to blaze inside of Enjolras’s eyes, their warm blue turning to ice. Dammit, this was the one thing he’d fought so hard to escape and people couldn’t seem to realise that! How hard was it to just give him a day, a moment or even a bloody second, to figure himself out. Was that so much to ask? 

Grantaire seemed to be loosing patience the longer he talked, so of course the sensible thing to do would be to shut up. However that had never been his strong suit and he couldn’t really help the words tumbling out of his mouth. 

“...And he loves you, he would never want to hurt you. But me? I don’t mean anything to him.” 

Was he really still speaking? Shit. And Grantaire looked like he was about to explode, his face darkening and jaw twitching. 

“Don’t mean anything to him? Courfeyrac,  _ he saved your fucking life! _ You  _ died  _ on us! You died three bloody times on us! We’ve been up all night praying you’re going to be okay and you really, truly think we don’t care?” 

He swore under his breath hysterically, his faded converse squeaking against the polished floor of the hospital as he paced it. 

He died? Godamnit, why couldn’t he have just stayed that way? It would have been so much easier on all of them.

”you died on us...” he repeated quietly.

“That was the point.” He whispered, voice catching, “that was the bloody point.”

He was so tired. So tired of having to live like this, and Grantaire out of anyone should know how it felt. 

“I know.” The anger had faded from R’s voice now, replaced with a huge sadness that seemed to make the room feel much smaller than it really was. “I know, Courfeyrac, I do. But it gets better! I promise it does, but you have to let us help you.” 

A single tear rolled down his cheek and Grantaire leant forwards to wipe it away, a sad smile on his lips. “Jehan wants to talk to you, okay?” 

He nodded and Grantaire left the room quietly, giving him precious time to pull himself together before the little red head burst in. 

Jehan was in a fit of tears, big hazel eyes wide and glassy as he clapped a freckly hand to his mouth. 

“Oh, Fey!” He murmured, chest heaving as he spoke, “I’m so sorry.” 

And he really couldn’t stay angry at Jehan. He was too sweet, too distraught to handle any more guilt and after all, he was only trying to stand up for his friends that night he’d kicked him out. And he’d given him the chance to apologise but he hadn’t taken it. Jehan had no fault in anything. He didn’t deserve this. 

“It’s not your fault,” he smiled weakly, shaking his head ever so slightly, “you gave me the opportunity to do the right thing and I ignored it. You had every right to kick me out.” Jehan didn’t seem convinced, nibbling on his bottom lip and twiddling his thumbs nervously. He looked like a kicked puppy, all sorry and saddened, and Courfeyrac couldn’t bear to see him like that. “I’m really not mad.” 

“You should be.” Jehan choked out, sniffling quietly, “I should have asked you what was wrong.” 

“You didn’t know, it’s fine.”

“No, but I should have realised.” He tilted his head to the side, looking up at him with big, sorrowful eyes, and he smiled in spite of himself. A sad smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

He patted the space on the bed next to him and shuffled over, silently asking him to sit with him. He needed the company, and Jehan was probably the only person he wanted to see right now. To his relief, Jehan immediately climbed into the bed, wrapping his arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

“Enjolras told us what he said. I’m not surprised you’re angry at him, but he really is sorry, you know?” 

He fumbled around for Courfeyrac’s hand and grabbed it, his bright yellow nails offering some kind of strange comfort. Jehan always painted his nails a different colour every week, and in a way it remained him that not everything had to change. Maybe he could still keep his friendships. He tried to clear his mind of the thought though, because every moment spent with the ABC meant another moment spent watching Enjolras from afar, jealousy brewing inside of him as he thought of him and Grantaire. 

They didn’t need him. 

“He told you?” 

“He told all of us.” Jehan nodded solemnly, “and if it makes you feel any better, Bahorel yelled at him so much one of the nurses had to make him leave before he hit him.” 

It didn’t make him feel better. Worse actually, that some of his friends might turn on him. But there was no point saying that. 

“He asked me to text him when you’re ready to see everyone, and I think Feuilly’s with him, so they might be a little late but...” he shrugged and turned back to him. He seemed less worried now that they had gotten talking but there was still a sadness weighing on his shoulders that didn’t belong there. Jehan should be dancing in flower fields and braiding his hair, not worrying about Courfeyrac, of all people. 

“Everyone’s here?” For some reason, that only brought him dread. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see them all, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to. He wasn’t prepared, he could bear to see them all look at him with muffled pity and guilt. It wouldn’t help. And he didn’t want to hurt them with the mess he’d become. 

“Yeah,” Jehan said absently. But he snapped back to attention when he seemed to notice the fear that as probably written all over his face. “You don’t have to see them. Not if you’re not ready.” 

“I do, it’s just...” 

Jehan nodded, immediately understanding. That was what he loved about Jehan; he was determined, but he knew when to leave things alone and in a kind way. He could reassure people with a soft smile and squeeze of the hand. He wasn’t like the others who, as much as they meant well, were nosy and liked to dig out secrets and information. 

“You don’t feel up to it? They’ll understand, don’t worry.” 

Courfeyrac nodded thankfully, relived he could be spared a moment alone. 

“Can you answer me something truthfully, please?” 

Uh oh. He knew they question was coming but still hadn’t really anticipated answering it. But looking at Jehan’s innocent face, pain written all over it, he really ought to spare him some worry. Even for a little while. He nodded. 

“Would you do it again?” 

_Yes_ ,  he thought,  _ in a heartbeat.  _

“No.” 

“You don’t have to say that,” Jehan said so kindly that he almost backtracked and told him. Told him everything. From being in love with Enjolras to the depression he knew had never really gone away. “We can still work forwards even if you say yes. I won’t think any less of you.” 

“I know. But I don’t think I would. I’m alive now, aren’t I? That has to mean something?” 

Jehan sighed in relief hugged him closer. 

“Courfeyrac it means everything in the world to me.” 

_To you_ ,  he thought,  _ but to me it just means I’ve failed at something else.  _

He didn’t reply. But he smiled against Jehan’s shoulder and closed his eyes as if he were falling asleep. And despite being exhausted, he knew he would never be able to succumb to sleep tonight. But he needed to be alone. 

When Jehan seemed convinced he was asleep, he slid out of the bed and pressed a kiss to his forehead gently. And it was all he could do not to burst into tears right there. 

But when the door finally closed for the last time, he couldn’t hold them back any longer. He just laid there silently, tears streaming down his cheeks in rivers until he wasn’t sure what was real anymore other than the pain in his heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so apologies, that chapter was shorter than usual, but hopefully the next one won’t be :) 
> 
> He lives!! There’s still going to be a good few chapters left of this so don’t worry, it doesn’t end here. 
> 
> I didn’t think Enjolras quite deserved a redemption yet but I can’t stay mad at Jehan and I didn’t want Courf to be either 
> 
> So yeah...thanks for reading again :)


	7. Chapter 7

If anyone had asked Courfeyrac what had happened to the pin, he’d have told them it was in the garbage somewhere, and that he really couldn’t care less. 

But he did care. He cared a lot because however stupid it sounded, it had belonged to Enjolras. And he wasn’t sure if the sight of it there fuelled his anger or turned it into sadness. Somehow one of the nurses who seemed to take a particular liking to him, (though God knows why she would), also managed to come to that conclusion before him. 

Her name was Fantine apparently, and she was incredibly kind. See, Courfeyrac had an irrational hatred of most doctors and nurses. He hated the way they prodded and poked into his past and asked him questions he didn’t know how to answer. But Fantine wasn’t like that. She didn’t push, but she did get the answers she needed. She was careful and considerate, sharing as much of her own past as Courfeyrac shared his. 

On one morning after his friends’ visit, she found him in the middle of a dark episode. He just wanted to go home, and the white walls and white floor and the overwhelming smell of disinfectant was making his head pound. He didn’t want to be trapped somewhere that told everyone he was fucked up, showed everyone what he’d tried to do. And when he told her this, she put an arm around him in comfort. Had it been anyone else, he would have shied away and avoiding their gaze, but Fantine wasn’t anyone.

“Can I ask you something, Courfeyrac?” She said politely, brushing her light hair out of her eyes. They were kind eyes; sea green and wide, giving her a soft and understanding appearance. He nodded. 

“Who does that pin belong to?” 

He struggled to find the right word to describe Enjolras. Friend? He wasn’t sure anymore. Crush? Nope, Enjolras was more than a crush and he didn’t need the one person who understood him to feel even more sorry for him. Acquaintance? Too formal. 

“My...friend? Well, maybe not  _ friend  _ but...” He cursed himself internally. “His name’s Enjolras.” 

“Oh, I think I know who you’re talking about.” Fantine said drily, her brow furrowing as she spoke. 

“You know him?” He asked in surprise. Well, that made things more awkward. 

“No, no, I don’t know him personally.” she said hurriedly, one of her hands gesturing wildly as she brushed off the comment. At his confused glance she elaborated, “He was arguing with another guy last night in the waiting room. He was in danger of being punched by him and, uh, that guy would have crushed him.” She hesitated for a moment and continued, “tall, blonde and terrifying, right?” 

Courfeyrac chuckled lightly at her description. That was definitely Enjolras, he thought. And now that she mentioned it, he couldn’t vaguely remember Jehan saying something about Bahorel almost punching him, but he’d been so knocked up on painkillers it was hard to recall. 

“I-yeah that’s him. That’s...that’s Enjolras.”

He’d felt the smile slip off of his lips and he swallowed tightly, loosing his energy to keep it there. Fantine noticed this and put a warm hand on his shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. “Go on,” she prompted. 

He shuddered. He wanted to tell her, he really did, but it was hard. Because if he said it out loud than he had to accept what happened. He had to be strong enough to keep Enjolras at arms length for a while, but the problem was that he was so weak. He would crumble and let him into his life again, just like he did every time any inconvenience came up. He wasn’t a strong person and he didn’t know if he could be. Especially now. 

Fantine didn’t interrupt him as he spoke, she just sat there with a neutral face, frowning only occasionally without it ever seeming judging. When he finished, she fixed him with a long, unreadable look. 

“He’ll apologise. He seems like that kind of person. And he will mean, it but even if he does  _you don’t have to accept it._ Not if you don’t want to.” She grimaced and stood up again, sighing underneath her breath. “And he’d deserve that at the least.”

“You think so?” 

Wasn’t that what he had been trying to explain? Wasn’t this what he’d tried to say but nobody had understood? He  would  forgive Enjolras. He would. And if he was being honest, he’d love to be able to say that to him right now, but he shouldn’t have to. Enjolras should be able to accept what he’d done wrong without having someone else fight his battles for him. He insisted on doing things by his self anyway, so why should this be any different? And Grantaire...Grantaire knew what he was going through. And okay, true, R had never actually attempted suicide but he’d given off the impression that he might so many times out of anyone, surely he should be the one to understand? 

And fine! He was Enjolras’s boyfriend, yes, but did that mean he had to agree with whatever he said? He made a pretty decent job of disagreeing with him during meetings and why he’d suddenly side with him now he couldn’t understand. And he knew they both cared, or at least he hoped they did, but could they really expect him to forgive him so quickly. He’d never had a problem with Grantaire before and even if you asked him now he would still say he doesn’t, but he could be sharp with his Apollo for just a moment. 

And Courfeyrac would say it was just his jealously talking. But he’d let them both stamp all over him without ever realising and used his ‘jealousy’ as an excuse to let them continue to do so. Jehan...well, if he told Jehan the whole truth he knew he’d do his best to help, but he didn’t want to turn him away from his friends. Yet at the same time he wasn’t happy to sit by anymore and let people continue to just use him. 

“I know so.” Fantine replied. “However, I think you should hold onto this just a little longer.” And she plucked the cockade pin from the garbage, placing it inside a drawer. “And if you leave here still not wanting it then I promise we can throw it away. Deal?” 

He half smiled, which was more than he had done in a while anyway. “Deal.” 

“One more thing?”

He knew it was coming before she even had to say it. They’d unhooked most of the wires attached to him, knocked down the dose of painkillers. They’d have to send him home soon, advise him to see a psychiatrist and all that shit, and he’s start the vicious cycle again. And maybe this time there might be people who watched that extra bit more. He didn’t want to do back to living alone, but anywhere was better than here. Although he would miss Fantine more than he had originally thought. 

“We need to know of you’re still suicidal.” It wasn’t a question. Or one he could avoid, anyway. It was more of a statement, demanding an answer. “And don’t lie, please. We’re here to help.” 

He didn’t know whether to tell her the truth. She had been so kind and deserved it, but he was sure he could manage fine on his own. And plus, his friends were going to force him into therapy-especially Joly. He shuddered at the thought of Joly’s doctor face; stern and unmoving, his voice finding a smooth tone, and he knew he’d have to listen to him. 

He was still fucking lying to himself. As much as he wanted to get better, he really didn’t know if he could. If he ever could. But he didn’t want to accept that, because if he did then he had to realise that was broken beyond repair, and that took too much of a toll on his mind. Plus, he couldn’t find the words to describe how he really felt. 

“Honestly, no.” He lied. Fantine raised an eyebrow. She didn’t believe him, but he could have seen this coming. “I’m not okay,” he said eventually, “but if I failed once then I’ll only fail again. I’m getting quite good at that, you know.” 

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but instead frowned and closed it again. She tilted her head and sort of gaped at him. 

“That’s...I’ve never really heard that response before.” She shook her head and seemed to compose herself, “Andthat’s not a mindset I usually encourage, but you’re right. You are alive because your supposed to be here. You didn’t fail, you succeeded.” 

_Yeah, right,_ He thought bitterly. He failed because that’s all he could do. He couldn’t win. But if whatever shit he’d said had convinced Fantine...well. 

Well he’d be putting himself back into that dangerous circle, and it was his own fucking fault! But he just didn’t want to be here. Could he be blamed entirely? 

Yes. Yes he could. He could ask for help; the opportunity was  _right there_.  But? But he’d always been a coward, and he just couldn’t face the stupid pep talks and pathetic attempts at making him see the better side. And oh, he’d tried. He’d bloody well tried but the truth of the matter was that there was no good side. Whichever way you turned it, he was still stuck in his own, disgusting skin. And that couldn’t be changed. 

Because no matter how many fake smiles he painted on his face, no matter how much he pretended like it would all be okay, all of it fades away when he’s alone. And then it’s all dark. He can’t find his way back or pull himself to the surface. He just slowly drowns whilst the world goes on around him. They didn’t need him. No one needed him. And if no one needed him then his facade breaks and the mask slips, and then all that he’s left with is himself. 

And see, that was where the problem lay. 

Himself wasn’t ever enough. 

Courfeyrac could barely remember the move from the hospital to Combeferre’s apartment. It had taken a few months; packing and unpacking, sorting out rooms and all that other unimportant stuff that just seemed like a blur. 

Of course, there had been countless therapy sessions and doctors before he’d even been given a diagnoses, which he thought was pointless. But Ferre had argued he needed to know exactly what was wrong and ‘make the first step towards recovery.’ 

Yeah, well, it wasn’t a step, it was a fucking mountain, and he wasn’t doing a particularly good job of climbing it. Severe depression. 

Well, it was worse than last time. And as much as he hated meds and pills and everything, Combeferre seemed intensely set on making sure he took them. 

They didn’t work. Or at least he thought they didn’t. All he ended up with was the stupid side effects that wouldn’t seem to wear off. As it was, he was stuck with a high temperature and his limbs seemed uncomfortably stiff. Ferre argued it would wear off, but if anything he was feeling even worse. All he wanted to do was tip them down the sink and laugh as they disappeared. However he was under strict orders to not do that. And really, Combeferre was as quite scary when he was serious. 

But he was also incredibly kind. He would sit with Courfeyrac whenever he felt lower than usual and hold him close, let him burry his face in his chest, and they’d stay there for hours. And he never complained. He also wasn’t wearing the bandages on his arms anymore, but it meant Combeferre had got into a habit of checking he wasn’t hurting himself. He’d got rid of everything that he could possibly use, including shoe laces,  which Courf thought was ridiculous. But he wasn’t in a position to complain. 

However Ferre didn’t know about the little swiss army knife that he kept in the pocket of one of his jackets. He was much shorter than Combeferre, so he wouldn’t ever be in danger of finding it whilst he was borrowing a jacket, so it was probably the safest place at the moment. 

But despite the caring and kindness Combeferre had been displaying, he didn’t feel any better. Sure, he wasn’t about to suddenly kill himself, but that was mainly because he was never left alone. He literally wouldn’t be able to. However if he  were ...

Well. Combeferre might be in for a shock, especially since no one really knew the full extent of how he felt. And oh, he’d been asked countless times how bad it was, but he couldn’t face them knowing how messed up he was. 

He often found himself thinking back to when he lived alone. His house-not a home, never a home-was dark and messy. He was by himself then, and yet somehow he’d never felt as lonely as he did now. Because Combeferre was just being a good friend. He wanted to believe that he really cared but his mind wouldn’t let him. He couldn’t comprehend how anyone could put up with him, and especially now. The thoughts that plagued him were repetitive, sure, but they were really fucking painful. And he’d forced himself to listen to them, scared that if he didn’t he’d become too attached to people. And he had. He’d let down his guard around him and it had escalated beyond his control. 

It was his own fault, really, and he was starting into a spaceless void that stretched endlessly into the uncertain distance. It was so vast, so wide, that he couldn’t see the end of it, no stars or planets. Just dark matter and noise. Noise that rocketed around inside of his head and drummed against his temple whilst he waited for the asteroid, that would undoubtedly come, to shatter everything. 

Tears began to prickle at his eyes again and he let his head drop back to hit the wall. It sent a dull thud through his skull but it let him focus a little better. He wanted to get out the knife that he knew he had hidden, but Combeferre was only in the kitchen and he could walk in at any moment. His hand twitched in the direction of the closet and he almost gave in. He only didn’t because Ferre wandered into the room. 

He stopped in his tracks, eyes immediately lighting up with concern as he looked down at him. He dropped to his knees, taking Courfeyrac’s hands in his own. Ferre’s hands were big and soft, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on the back of his hand. Courf let out a small sob, a little bubble of pain escaping, and collapsed into his chest, silent tears slipping down his cheeks. 

It was so unfair! He’d tried so hard to be good but he couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t be himself. Combeferre’s arms tightened around him and provided him with a warm sense of comfort that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Ferre didn’t say much, and he liked it better that way. He always seemed to know what was right for the situation and Courfeyrac appreciated it. 

He supposed he must have fallen asleep wrapped in his embrace, but he couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that his dreams were plagued with tall blondes that glared at him and he pretended the arms around him weren’t Combeferre’s, as selfish as that seemed. 

When he woke up, the space next to him was cold, but the faint scent of Combeferre's aftershave still lingered on the pillow. 

He pretended his tears didn't fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaah sorry I haven’t updated in a while!!! I don’t really have an excuse apart from writer’s block soooo....sorry?   
> Anyway thank you for reading  
> :)


	8. Chapter 8

Courfeyrac? Can I talk to you?” 

See, that could mean a lot of different things, very few of them good, and Courfeyrac froze in his room, panic immediately settling in. 

It could mean Combeferre had found the knife he’d stashed away, or it could simply mean he just needed help with something, though God knows how he could be of any use. However it could also mean he’d felt the way Courfeyrac had twitched his leg away when Combeferre laid a hand absently on him when they watched that movie a few nights ago. 

What had that movie been about? He had a feeling it was something to do with space and robots (which would make sense since this was, well,  _ Combeferre  _ he was talking about), but it was too vague for him to really be sure. 

Well, he couldn’t exactly say no to him, could he? Shit, he couldn’t really say no to anything any more. It would definitely cause some suspicion and honestly he was doing just fine keeping the secrets that Combeferre didn’t necessarily need to know. So he debated moving the hiding place of the little swiss army knife so that should Ferre demand to search the place for anything of the kind, he wouldn’t find it. Unfortunately he didn’t have much time, and Combeferre was knocking on the door again, this time rather worriedly. 

“Courfeyrac?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Just come in.” 

(He mentally applauded himself on the way his voice didn’t break or sound jittery.)

He cast one last glance at the wardrobe where it was hidden and sighed. Whatever it was Combeferre needed, he didn’t sound too worried, so maybe he just needed a favour? And god knows he owed Combeferre his life...

Ah. Maybe not the most  _ appropriate  _ choice of words, but...

“Hey,” Ferre smiled, leaning against the door frame idly. He he was holding a mug of...coffee, was it? He wasn’t a big tea drinker. 

Courfeyrac swallowed and tried to hide his nervousness, plunging his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He didn’t reply, just flashed a weary smile and hoped he seemed convincing. 

“How’ve you been?” Combeferre said softly and Courf knew he meant well, but were they really still stuck in this loop? Where he’d ask the same question of ‘are you okay?’, and Courfeyrac would lie and he’d  _ know  _ he was lying? Surely they were past this now?

“Ferre...” 

“I’ve barely seen you this week.” He cut in. His face remained neutral, like he was trying not to worry, but his eyes were deepened with concern, visible even behind his thin framed glasses. 

“I live with you...?” 

“Yes. Thank you, Courf,” He looked almost as if he was about to smile, the corners of his lips quirking upwards for a moment. And it felt like it used to, when they could laugh without worrying it was going to be a trigger that would send him spiralling back down. But then Ferre’s face relaxed again, the familiar weight of worry stretching out his features, “that’s why I’m worried.” 

And, well, now that he mentioned it, it was definitely true. He’d sort of shut himself away, even when he desperately needed someone because it was easier. It was easier to cry with his face pressed into a pillow, choking away his sobs, than to let the tears flow on someone else’s shoulder. To them have to try and explain that no, no he really wasn’t okay at all. 

“I’m fine, Ferre,” he said tiredly. He probably hadn’t slept properly all week, the bags under his eyes more prominent than every, he didn’t need Combeferre worrying over him every second of the day. He appreciated it, of course he did, but it was exhausting. “I’m just tired.” 

Combeferre narrowed his eyes like he knew he was lying, and he probably did, but when he spoke it was with that doctor voice he used when he could tell something was wrong. His voice was smooth and gentle, never raising up into a question and providing a strange sense of safety. He never pushed, but he would make it clear that he was someone to talk to, should he need it. 

“I bought your favourite hot chocolate yesterday,” he said after a while, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the door frame, “we can watch a movie?” 

Truthfully, no he didn’t want to watch a movie. But he’d been blunt all week, disregarding how Combeferre felt and locking himself away. After everything he’d done for him! He was a selfish person, and if he wasn’t he’d move back to his old apartment. But he did enjoy Ferre’s company, despite how he was failing to let that on. And he knew that should he end up alone again...well there would be no one to stop him from doing anything. To stop him from-

-No! He didn’t need to think about that. If he did, he’d only want to try again. And he didn’t. 

He did. 

No, he didn’t. 

Goddamn it! Why couldn’t he just trick himself into believing it? He could seem to fool everyone but himself, the thought always lurking somewhere in the back of his mind. And when it wasn’t there, it was screaming at him, drowning out the ration thoughts and replacing them with cold fear and anger. Pain that seeped through his ribs and came to settle in his heart, slowly creeping up into his mind until he couldn’t think of anything else apart from how better off everyone would be without him. 

He was very aware Combeferre was still looking at him, probably trying to work out what was going on in his mind, which Courfeyrac definitely thought would be rather alarming if he did find out... 

“Yeah,” he said eventually, choosing his words carefully and praying beyond anything that his voice didn’t catch or crack, “that sounds great.” 

Combeferre grinned and pushed his glasses up on his nose. He grabbed Courfeyrac’s hand and practically dragged him into the kitchen, some of the tension on his face already visibly dropping. And it was only then that he realised how miserable he’d been making his best friend. He shouldn’t have to put up with his constant moping and tears, have to worry about when he was next going to do something stupid. It was unfair and horribly cruel of him. 

And again, he couldn’t help but let the train of self-deprecating thoughts trample over his mind, shattering apart the brief bliss of happiness that he’d managed to grip hold of, even delicately. He glanced down at his phone, knowing a tiny part of the weight would be lifted if that message just popped up on his screen. Even just a simple,  _I’m sorry_ ,  would suffice. 

He needed to know that Enjolras cared. He’d cared at the hospital a few months ago, only Courfeyrac had been too knocked up on drugs and antibiotics to really comprehend what was going on. Maybe if he had...

No. He wouldn’t have forgiven him then but in all the time since, he’d not even got so much as a hint of information about how he felt. Maybe he should take that as a sign, realise that he didn’t care, but Enjolras wasn’t a liar. He was honest about everything, even when it came to the cold, hard truth, and he’d said he cared! So why wasn’t he trying? 

“Why do you keep doing that?” Combeferre said suddenly. He was frowning, dark eyebrows drawn close together as he looked from Courfeyrac to the phone in his hand. He felt his cheeks flush and he slid the phone back into his pocket, clearing his throat quietly. 

“What?” He tried to say convincingly, but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone. He sighed and pulled his phone back out, letting it drop to the kitchen counter as he looked up at Ferre. “I just...Enjolras hasn’t got a new number, has he?” 

Realistically, he knew that he was just making up excuses. Just trying to trick himself into pretending that he hadn’t lost the most important person in his life. But it still didn’t prepare him for-

“No, I don’t think so?” Combeferre said slowly, his hand still hovering over the his favourite mug. He seemed...he wasn’t sure, worried? No. No, worried wasn’t quite it. His dark eyes were widened slightly, and he could see the way he swallowed. There was something he wasn’t telling him. 

“Really? Because he hasn’t-“

“-Courf-“

“-he hasn’t actually got in contact with me yet and-“

“-Courfeyrac, please just-“

“So I was  _ thinking  _ that maybe he’d lost my contact or-or he wasn’t sure if-“

He was rambling, voice jumping a few octaves as he desperately clutched at anything he could hold onto. He sounded stupid, he knew that, but a part of him just wanted to believe Enjolras hadn’t forgotten about him. 

“Courfeyrac.” Ferre said slowly, a painful expression settling onto his face. Courfeyrac shook his head, trying to block out his voice. He didn’t want to hear. He didn’t want to hear that the love of his life didn’t give a shit about him. He  _ couldn’t  _ hear that. 

“Courfeyrac,” he repeated, coming to sit opposite him, taking his shaking hands in his own. “You have to accept that maybe...” 

No.  _Stop_!  He was screaming internally,  _ stop talking you don’t want to hear that  _

“...maybe he’s not going to apologise again.” 

And just like that, the storm picked up in his brain, crashing against his skull until everything was drowned out. It was just blind noise, too many different thoughts racing across his mind and he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe....

He didn’t really even register that he was running until his legs were giving out underneath him, rain trickling down into his collar, turning his blood to ice. His knees hit the rain-soaked grass, staining his favourite pair of jeans, though he could hardly bring himself to care. 

He looked up. 

This was the park he and Enjolras used to go whenever something was wrong. He’d message him, or the other way round, and within an hour the other would come too. They’d sit against the big oak tree, letting to of whatever anger and frustration had built up and everything would feel calmer. The world would stop spinning for just a moment, the noise faded away.

“Courfeyrac?”

Considering it was their park, maybe he should have thought about the possibility that Enjolras might show up. Not for him, of course, but he would undoubtedly have his own problems and worries. A few weeks ago he would have just called him, talked to each other and sorted out whatever had been bothering each other. A year ago they’d have met up with Ferre and the three of them would have spent the night together, laughing about something or another. 

But that seemed like a lifetime ago. A time when he could remember what it felt like to be truly happy and not just a false smile that he flashed his friends so they wouldn’t worry. Some people just couldn’t get better and he knew this, but all that ‘it gets worse before it gets better’ bullshit was, well, bullshit. And anyway, there was no way he could even begin to imagine things being worse and he wasn’t about to try and wade through those waters. And in any case, he was most definitely not getting any better. 

Maybe he would just be stuck in this sort of pit of pain forever, one that secured its freakishly strong grip around his ankles like weights, keeping him in the kind of helpless state you feel in when you’re drowning. The point where you’re running out of breath but the surface is just there but yet not close enough. The point where your head pounds and your heart threatens to explode. You struggle and you struggle but you’re running out of time and strength and you have to let go. Stop fighting. 

But if he stopped fighting then there would be no going back. He’d tried before and obviously it hadn’t worked. Was he even fighting anymore? No. No he was sinking, that tiny bit of hope about to dissolve and he really, really didn’t want to keep going. 

So what would it take to obliterate any last ray of hope? 

Bur Enjolras was still speaking. He was tapping Courfeyrac’s shoulder tentatively, as if he was going to shatter under his touch. 

_Weak_. 

“Courfeyrac? Can you hear me?” 

He looked up. And he’d almost forgotten how breathtaking Enjolras was; his golden hair that seemed to be weaved out of the softest silk, the piercing blue of his eyes, the little scar above his right eyebrow that made him remember that time they’d both gone rock climbing and had both been terrible at it. How long ago was that? Seven years? Maybe eight? 

He nodded and let his gaze drop back to his hands, picking at the nail polish he’d let Combeferre paint a few days ago. Yellow. It was yellow, that had been his favourite colour once, hadn’t it? Enjolras’s had always been red. 

“I-I know you said you didn’t want to see me again-“ Enjolras said quietly, his voice unusually small and broken, full of something he couldn’t quite place. But...but he hadn’t said that, had he? He’d thrown the bloody pin away-well, temporarily-in front of him but hadn’t said that! He couldn’t have. 

“-I never said that.” He said bluntly, still struggling to process it. Enjolras just sort of gaped at him, his eyes wide with confusion. He opened his mouth as if to speak but then frowned again, looking down at his phone and then back up again. 

“But...” he started, “But Combeferre told me you wanted me out of your life. You...you did tell him that, right?” 

Courfeyrac didn’t know how to handle that. 

He didn’t know what to believe. Ferre had fucking  _ said  _ that Enjolras probably wasn’t going to apologise... _ told  _ him that. Had he...had he really lied to him? Everything was spinning and he could feel the tears prickling at his eyes. No. No Combeferre wouldn’t lie to him. He wouldn’t! Enjolras must be confused or-or making it up! 

“No, no you’re lying.” He choked out, shaking his head frantically. He rose to his feet too quickly, the ground beneath him starting to sway. He felt his knees buckle and Enjolras’s arm grip gold of his shoulder to keep him upright. 

“I’m not a liar, Courfeyrac.” 

And...and it was this that jolted him back to reality, something clicking into place. Because not once in their fifteen years of friendship had he ever lied to him. He’d said what he  _ thought  _ was true-like the night he’d tried to...well,  _ that  _ night, but he’d never blatantly lied and disregarded what he knew was true. He was too honest, actually, and now that he said it out loud he felt sheepish for ever thinking it. 

“But...” he said, looking for any kind of explanation, “but you never even messaged me. You never even  _ tried _ ...” 

“You blocked my number.” Enjolras frowned, “I must have tried to call you a million times but Ferre wouldn’t let me visit. I don’t even speak to him anymore...” 

“I didn’t block you...” he said faintly, a tear escaping him, “I-I was waiting for you.” 

And then suddenly it all clicked; the expression he hadn’t been able to read on Combeferre’s face hadn’t been worry at all.It was guilt. His avoidance of the subject of Enjolras and purposely steering away from those questions. And he’d  _ known  _ something was off! Known there was something he wasn’t telling him. 

Enjolras’s bottom lip was trembling, tears freely falling over his cheeks, and he suddenly seemed to loose it completely, breaking down into a fit of sobs. 

“You don’t understand how sorry I am, Courfeyrac,” he gasped, “and I know I should have tried harder, and I have no excuse, but-“ 

-An unfamiliar feeling settled over him as Enjolras rambled. He could see it was genuine, that if he’d known what had been going on he’d have tried to help. He opened his phone, searching and searching for Enjolras’s contract but it wasn’t there. And he knew for a fact he would never have deleted it. He’d been constantly checking ever five minutes for his texts and...and of course they’d never come. 

He couldn’t help it. He collapsed into Enjolras’s arms, his own tears fell in streams down his cheeks, soaking the other’s shirt. And it felt...well,  _ right  _ to be held in his strong arms, reminding him of all the long ago times they’d had. Shared. Whatever. It was probably only temporary anyway. Because he trusted Combeferre with his life and he wasn’t sure who he’d rather have lie to him. Ferre...he had every right to be angry at him if he had really done all this, but he’d also done so much. He’d took him in and cared for him, tried so hard to help him. But he’d  _ lied _ , stolen the hope of rebuilding his friendship with Enjolras. 

He vaguely wondered if Ferre knew about his love for Enjolras. He probably did. He knew he probably had good intentions, trying to keep him from the person who had hurt him the most. But he was willing to forgive Enjolras. He had forgiven him. And he couldn’t help but feel a sense of betrayal he was unable to shake. It settled deep in his heart, shattering some sort of barrier that he hadn’t known was there. He’d been wrong. So wrong. Things could get worse, and they just had. 

If he couldn’t trust the person who he’d thought was keeping him safe, who could he trust? No one. They would all leave him eventually, all slipping off onto their own paths and leaving him to tag along, get lost and fall behind. Too many roads and too many turns and he couldn’t navigate his way around. He couldn’t even breathe. His throat was closing up, black spots beginning to cloud his vision and his heart seemed to be beating irregularly, panic crashing in waves fiercer then storms. 

He knew Enjolras was speaking to him, trying to calm him down, but it made no difference. There was-it wasn’t even sadness anymore-a huge anger rising up inside of him, consuming him and filling up the spaces in his mind that he hadn’t even realised where empty. 

And then there was a hand guiding him into a car, pausing momentarily to make sure he was okay with it, although at this point he was so out of it he could probably be kidnapped and not even realise it. They rode in almost complete silence, the slight hitch to his breath and Enjolras’s sort of growls of frustration being the only real noise. Maybe the radio was on too, he couldn’t really tell. 

And home (could he even call it home?) looked so strange. Well, no, it looked exactly the same and for some reason that was worse. He wasn’t sure why, maybe because everything had changed to suddenly that he sort of half-expected nothing to seem the same. But it did; the same dying plants next to the same dent in the wall where Bossuet had once caught it with a chair. The same faint smell of jasmine in the hallways because it was Combeferre’s favourite flower. And it usually gave him that extra bit of comfort, because Ferre was consistent and didn’t change things randomly, to know everything was just how he left it, but now...

Now all he could think about was that guilt in his eyes, the way he’d hesitated. He’d almost told him, he realised, come so close to letting it slip but...

But he hadn’t. That was the point. He’d lied, kept him from knowing what really happened. He knew he’d have to forgive Ferre, especially after all he’d done for him, but he was still allowed to be angry. 

He turned back to Enjolras, gesturing for him to wait in the hallway for a moment. He would give Combeferre a chance to tell him the truth, and he’d still probably be angry, but he’d try harder to understand. And if he didn’t...well, he didn’t want to have to think about that. 

“Courf, is that you?” 

The voice came from the kitchen and Courfeyrac felt his heart do a few nervous flips, suddenly realising just how much he was relaying on his honesty. It was going to destroy him if he lied again. Too many lies and too many feelings-he couldn’t deal with it all. 

“Yeah,” he replied, hearing the slight crack in his voice even himself. He took a moment to prepare and then wandered in as casually as he could whilst trying to hide such an immense anger. 

Combeferre was just finishing washing up, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his tattoos that honestly, Courfeyrac had sort of forgotten about. He didn’t even recognise some of them. 

“I just want to apologise for earlier,” he started, turning around to face him, glasses slipping off his nose a little. He pushed them up quickly, his intense gaze focused only on him. “I didn’t mean to come across as rude, but...” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders sort of lamely. 

“But?” 

“Well, I mean, you’ve got to understand where I was coming from? He hasn’t made much of an effort to contact you, has he?” 

And there it was. The lies, the deception. It wasn’t even the fact that he was trying to make Enjolras out as the bad guy, it was the fact that he  _ knew  _ why he hadn’t called. He knew and he was still trying to keep up the game of pretence. 

Courfeyrac could feel his fists clenching by his sides, feel his stomach twist in anger. Combeferre was a level headed man who didn’t make rash decisions, so he probably had his reasons for doing what he did, but  _ lying  _ so blatantly to him whilst knowing how importantly he valued trust. 

“Is there nothing else you want to tell me?” 

Combeferre seemed to consider it, the expression on his face barely changing, and then he shook his head. 

He shook his head. 

“Why are you lying to me?” He said coldly, his voice sticking in his throat, the familiar feeling of tears prickling at his eyes. 

“I’ve got nothing to lie about.”

“ _Stop fucking lying to me, Combeferre_!”  Helost control of his voice, it crack and broke and then suddenly he was crying, fat tears running down his cheeks and someone’s arm was around his shoulder, but it wasn’t Combeferre’s which meant it must be-

“-Enjolras.” Combeferre growled, his dark eyes glinting with an anger he’d never seen before. “What’re you-“ and then it seemed to sink in. He looked wildly between the two, and Courfeyrac could see him swallow nervously. He reached out a hand as if he was going to pull Enjolras’s arm away but then he sort of paused, his fingers trembling in the air before dropping back down to his sides. “Shit,” he whispered. 

“Combeferre, I believed you. I stopped myself from calling round so many times, and I texted and called and there was no answer! He didn’t even know  _why_.  I wanted to see him so badly and you-you...” Enjolras broke off, his voice wavering, and Courfeyrac could see the shininess of tears in his blue eyes. “What is  _ wrong _ with you?” 

“With me?” Combeferre practically snarled, his nostrils flaring, “Enjolras I think you’re forgetting what- no sorry,  _ who- _ put him in hospital in the first place!” 

Enjolras blinked, shame twisting his features. He seemed to stumble for words, his chest heaving and then he let out a shuddering gasp. Courfeyrac swore he could hear his tears practically hitting the floor. 

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the room.” Courfeyrac said coldly, his fist slamming down into the counter, “I’m not going to break! I’m not-I’m not  _ weak _ ! There were so many reasons I did what I did, the argument with Enjolras...well, we both know it didn’t help but it’s not as if just because we fought suddenly I loose the will to live.” He sighed angrily, surprised at the way Combeferre was recoiling, “I was doing to kill myself anyway, isn’t that obvious? It was just a...a decider.” 

“Not  _ ‘just’  _ Courf,” Combeferre struggled, his brow furrowed, “can’t you see I was trying to protect you?” 

It was this that sent him over the edge. He didn’t  _ need  _ protecting! He wasn’t an injured animal! He fixed Combeferre with the coldest glare he could muster, practically shaking with anger. 

“You don’t get a say in who I want in my life. You’re not me and quite frankly you have no idea what I’m going through. You don’t understand how  _ hard  _ it is to-to just keep living!” 

“I understand you’re sad Courf-“

“-I’m not just  _sad_! Depression isn’t just...it’s not a cup of water being thrown at you. It’s drowning. You can’t breathe, you can’t think, you can’t-I can’t-I don’t  _ want  _ to keep going!” 

Enjolras darted forwards, his strong arms reaching out to pull him into a hug but he didn’t want it. He moved out of the way, to the other side of the counter, out of reach. He didn’t want to have to rely on everyone else’s happiness to feed his own. It wasn’t fair on either of them. 

“I’m not trying anymore.” He said faintly, something inside of him reaching a breaking point. There were no tears left to cry. 

“You don’t have to stay positive to be trying.” Enjolras said carefully, ignoring Combeferre’s whispers to back down and let him explain. “It’s knowing that no matter which way things turn out, you’re going to be okay.” 

“But I’m  _ not  _ okay!” He said hysterically, grabbing a fistful of his hair. He was so fed up. Spending his time faking reassurance and pretending that he was slowly getting better. Some people didn’t get better and he was one of them. If he knew anything for certain, it was that. 

Combeferre looked as if he was on the brink of tears. He swallowed and ran a shaky hand through his hair. “But you said-“

“-I lied, okay? I lied! I’m not...I’m not better.” 

“Courf...” 

He shook his head, hiccuping between each hysteric breath, and turned himself so he wasn’t facing Combeferre and Enjolras. He couldn’t bare to look at them. He felt naked, like every inch of himself and everything he hated about him was on display for the world. 

“Courfeyrac please-“ Someone’s hand landed on his shoulder and he whipped around, grabbing them by the wrist. It was Ferre, tears slipping silently down his cheeks, thin-framed glasses steaming up. 

“Combeferre,” he choked out, “you know I’m thankful for everything you’ve done for me. But I don’t think you understand what you did.” 

“No, I do. And I’m really sorry, Courf, you know I-“ 

“Do you know how it feels,” he spat, feeling his heart stop for a second, “to have one of the most important people in your life suddenly disappear? No apology, no explanation.” He paused, seeing the shame flood both of their faces. Enjolras side-glanced Combeferre, who still seemed to be having trouble letting his anger at him settle. He felt bad, he really did, but his hurt had been bottling up inside of him for so long now. 

“I waited months, you know? Months! For a text or a call or  _ anything  _ and when nothing came I felt like...i felt like there was no point in anything. And I was just waiting for a time where I’d be alone so I could...so I could just...” he broke off, the lump in his throat almost making it impossible to speak. “I thought you didn’t care. And then Combeferre,” he turned to him, “I know you really tried to help me, and it’s not your fault you couldn’t, but you took away the one thing I really needed.” 

He was shaking, his vision was blurred with tears, and all he wanted to do was be alone. For so long he’d been waiting for that text, that call, that message or just to see Enjolras’s face. To hear him say he was sorry. And now...now he couldn’t bear to even look at him. He didn’t want to see the shock and pity that he knew would be painted onto their faces. 

They stood in silence for a moment, the only noise being the slight rattle of the window frame the wind brought. Neither of them spoke and the silence became so heavy that it felt like it was drilling into his skull. 

“I can’t do this.” He said suddenly. 

He was so tired and so drained of energy and his head pounded. He was light-headed and weak from crying, his breathing still shallow and irregular, little bursts of gasping escaping every so often. 

He turned sharply on his heel, vision swaying a little with the sudden movement, and made to leave, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist his urges, knowing there was o no way he was staying clean tonight or even remotely sober. But he felt Enjolras’s arm shoot out to prevent him from leaving, closing tightly around his elbow. 

“Enjolras-“ he began, but he butted in anyway. 

“-Courf, I’m not leaving you alone -“

“-Enjolras get the fuck off of me.” 

“Courfeyrac please-“

“-Leave me alone!” 

“Courf-“

“Enjolras! I said  _leave me alone_.” 

The grip on his arm slackened and he broke free of the grasp, stumbling from the room to his own, letting the door slam behind him. 

He’d learnt time and time again that people let you down. If they did it once, they’d do it again. And his friends-

His friends could never understand. They didn’t understand it wasn’t just sadness he was feeling. It was this huge, unmovable weight that someone had dropped on him, winding around his ankles and wrists and heart and dragging him down. He was so far from the surface now that he could see the bottom. Hell, he could touch the bottom; that icy cold pit that he could never escape.

Sleep used to be his only form of escape; when he wasn’t in control and couldn’t let his mind twist everything around. But now even sleep never seemed to come. It was like it was purposely avoiding him, keeping his eyes sore with exhaustion and his hands always with a shaking. And whether that was from lack of sleep or lack of food...

Well. He knew he’d lost at least a little bit of weight-his scales told him so. But he didn’t feel like he had. He still felt fat and disgusting, extra weight that he didn’t need still clinging to him. He didn’t see why he should have to eat anyway. 

He could hear Combeferre and Enjolras talking in the kitchen. Although maybe ‘ _talking_ ’  wasn’t quite accurate; Combeferre’s voice was relatively calm but with a cold anger underneath and Enjolras was, well, being Enjolras. His voice was raised, ice lacing every word, and without even seeing his face Courfeyrac knew it would be almost identical to the night he argued with him too. 

“This is not my fucking fault!” Enjolras was saying, “I said some shit that night without knowing the truth, and I really fucking regret it.” He heard Combeferre mumble something inaudible and Enjolras’s mirthless laugh followed. 

“No, what _you_ did was different. You lied when he trusted you so much. How could you do that?” 

“I didn’t mean for him to rely on me so heavily!” Combeferre said coldly, and Courfeyrac turned away again, having heard more than he wanted to. 

_Combeferre hates you_ ,  he told himself,  _ and now Enjolras hates him too. This is your fault.  _

And he felt so, deeply guilty that for just a moment everything stopped. He’d spent so long feeling so much that now...

Now he started to feel nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow it’s been a long time since I updated...sorry...  
> Although actually I do have an excuse this time I’m literally in the middle of nowhere with hardly any WiFi...  
> On that note, I don’t know how long it will be until I can update again so I tried to make this chapter longer to sort of make up for it   
> Again and as always, thank you for reading:) 
> 
> Also comments are my lifeline so thank you to anyone who ever leaves them :)


	9. Chapter 9

Courfeyrac would have much preferred to have moved back out of Combeferre’s apartment, even if meant he would be living alone again. However him and Enjolras, and probably the rest of the abc if they’d been told what happened, thought that it wasn’t ‘appropriate’. 

He disagreed of course, either staying out of the house for as long as possible or keeping himself locked in his room. 

And as angry as he was with Ferre, he knew he couldn’t stay mad at him forever. It wouldn’t really be fair, especially consideringthat up until recently, he’d done his best to try and help, despite Courf relying on him more heavily than Ferre had probably been expecting. 

Enjolras and Combeferre still weren’t speaking. He tried not to think about that too much. 

But as usual, his mind did not let him get away with anything. And to make matters worse, from the moment he’d woken up, Courfeyrac had known it was going to be a bad, bad day. There had been a pain somewhere in his chest that clutched hold of him; a cold sadness that wrapped itself around his shoulders, traced its skeletal fingers along his spine and reminded him of everything that he hated about himself. 

He thought about calling Enjolras. 

And then he thought better of it. 

He had been sat in the kitchen since half past five in the morning, the feeling of dread unable to be shook away. He’d thought about making breakfast, just some dry cereal, but he’d made no attempt to ever get up from his seat. 

The shower turned on further down the hallway and he took it as his cue to leave, slipping out of the door as quickly as he could without alerting Combeferre that he was awake. 

The cool morning air was soothing against his hot cheeks, the scent of the dying tulips that he’d never remembered to water filling his nose. Who’s idea had they been to plant? He remembered Ferre calling him outside to show him them, but whether he’d asked to plant them or if Combeferre had spontaneously bought them he couldn’t recall. All he remembered was that he’d found a small burst in those flowers as they’d started to grow. 

And now, like everything else in his life, they had died off too. 

There wasn’t a meeting today but everyone had planned to gather at the Musain for a catch up and Enjolras refused to let him get out of it. It wasn’t for an hour or so yet but he didn’t think he could stand to be locked up in the apartment for another moment. 

So he took the long walk around the streets, wandering along pavements and streets that he could hardly remember. It wasn’t his home. Nowhere was really. His own apartment was dark and lonely, his mind refusing to let him just  _ rest _ , but here? Here he lived waiting for people to let him down, wondering which lie he was going to he told next. He’d walked these streets all the years he’d known his friends but never really alone. It sounded stupid, he knew that, but he was usually accompanied by someone or at the very least on his way to visit someone, knowing that he wasn’t going to be alone. 

And now? Where did he turn to? Who did he run and cry to? Although he couldn’t, because he didn’t think they would be able to handle the true pain he felt without them feeling like they needed to do something to help. In reality he knew he was past the point of help, but that still didn’t make the pain any easier to manage. In fact, quite the opposite, because he knew that until the day he died he would only ever feel like this. 

He picked up his pace, all too aware that he’d been walking at a questionable speed and that he needed to escape his mind. He came to a stop at a place where he’d often spent so much time wondering if he could work up the courage to just jump. 

It was quite vacant. Other than a young woman sat inside the bus shelter where he’d fought with Enjolras all those months ago and a bridge that overlooked the road; the cars were the only real source of movement. It had been a long time since that night and the rain and the anger in Enjolras’s voice and yet it still wouldn’t go away. It wouldn’t-

‘ _Stay the fuck away from me.”_

-the mirthless laugh wouldn’t stop ringing in his ears and he remembered his hand connecting with Enjolras’s face; the smooth, flawless skin that he’d always fantasised about caressing lovingly and he’d marked it! He’d messed up the perfection of him and-

‘ _Stay the fuck away from me.”_

-How didn’t Enjolras hate him! Or worse, what if he  _ did  _ hate him? What if he was just pretending to like him, to be sorry, because he knew that Courfeyrac wouldn’t be able to handle the real truth. No. No, he couldn’t loose him. He couldn’t loose Enjolras. 

_ You already have,  _ a voice sneered in his mind,  _He’s with Grantaire, not you_. 

Enjolras loved Grantaire. 

_Grantaire_. 

_ Grantaire _ who was funnier and better looking and fucking  _ happier  _ than he was. Why should Courfeyrac be bitter and sad when it was his own fault? No one would ever love him. Why would they? The people who were loved were people like-

_Grantaire_. 

-the people who were happy. And fun. And kind. And people like Enjolras, who were pretty and selfless and  _perfect_ -

_ You’ll never be enough.  _

_ You’ll never- _

-Why should he burden everyone else’s life when his own was so pointless? Why should he make them worry and pretend to care so much in their lives when he valued his own to little?

_ Never enough.  _

_Never_. 

-He was done! He was so fucking done! There was no one here to stop him and he could hear someone getting up so the girl sat in the bus shelter was leaving anyway so  _ why _ ? Why stay? Why put himself through so much more pain when he could end it all right here?

His hands gripped the metal railing of the bridge so tightly that his knuckles must be going white. Only he couldn’t see through the blurred vision of his tears, his chest heaving; rising and falling out of beat like everything in his life that strayed so far away from what he knew. 

He couldn’t go to a doctor and point to his brain and his heart and chest and scream that he couldn’t feel anything other than pain. Everything was dark. Everything hurt and he was so, so consumed by the sadness that he couldn’t just ask someone to fix it. There was no prescription or surgery for that kind of pain. 

No drink would ever be enough. No tears would ever be enough. Nothing-

“ _Stay the fuck away from me”._

_Don’t worry Enjolras_ ,  he thought bitterly,  _I can finally make you proud_. 

He was raising himself up, preparing to throw himself forwards when somewhere in the distance, somewhere in the roads a car horn beeped. It made him jump and his mind flashed back to reality for just a second. And in that short flicker of time, someone’s arms had wrapped around his waist, pulling him back onto the pavement. 

His body made contact with the hard, dry ground and someone’s hair was in his face, filling his nostrils with the scent of coconut. No one he knew had that distinct scent. And someone, the same someone, was laying on top of him, keeping him on the floor. 

He begun to panic, flailing his arms around to try and free him but the weight wouldn’tshift and he was left only with his broken sobs. 

“Please let me do it,” he said weakly, “just let me go. Please, please don’t make me stay.” He tried and failed once again to move the hands that were pinning his arms down-and it hurt that she was pressing on him but he didn’t care-but eventually he grew limp. 

He made no effort to get up, laying there with the sky above him, and he wished more than anything that the universe would just let him die. Why wouldn’t it? Why was it keeping him here? 

Why wouldn’t it let him _die?_

He wanted to let out a strangled scream; scream until his lungs burst and his head exploded, until his limps were still and his body empty. But he couldn’t move. He just lay there weakly with tears slipping down the side of his face and into his hair. 

It suddenly felt colder than before and he realised his teeth were chattering, every bone wanting to resist but unable to find the energy to do so. 

“I’d ask if you’re alright but I think that’s a pretty stupid question.” Someone said shakily. He didn’t recognise their voice, though it was definitely one of a girl. 

He sat up gingerly, not even making an attempt to wipe the tears from his cheeks. The speaker was, in fact, a girl. The same girl, he realised slowly, that had been sat in the shelter before. He felt stupid now, thinking she’d gone to leave. No. He’d been too caught up in his head to realise someone might try and stop him, purely out of a kindness he did not deserve, and she had done just that. 

She was very pretty; rich, dark skin and braided hair cut just below her shoulders. Kind eyes and a shaky smile. She looked familiar-something about her thin nose and the way she held herself-but he couldn’t place it for the life of him. 

He wanted to thank her despise wishing she’d just let him do it, but he couldn’t find it in himself to work up the words. Instead he just let a sob escape him again and clasped a hand over his mouth, his chest heaving. 

“Hey, hey, you don’t have to answer. I’m sorry, that was shitty of me.” 

“No,” he said immediately, though his voice was sort of scratchy, “no, no it wasn’t shitty of you at all. You are...you’re very kind.” 

The girl frowned and waved his words away, offering a hand up. He took it and she gracefully pretended not to notice the shaking of it. She led them both over to a bench and looked him dead in the eye. 

“I’m Azelma,” she said. 

He sat down with shaky legs, his breathing far from rational and the occasional hitch as he tried to speak. There was a pounding behind his eyes, exhaustion forcing them to close. But he took a deep, rattling breath and choked out-

“Courfeyrac.” 

Azelma opened her mouth as if she was about to say something but closed it again, frowning ever so lightly. 

“Nice to meet you. Although I’d rather it have been under better circumstances.” 

Courfeyrac forced a laugh, knowing she would see it was fake, but it was the best he could do. 

“Thank you for...well. For this.” 

“You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to.”

“Yeah well, you didn’t have to. And you did, so...” 

“What?” Azelma said sarcastically, that sad look back in her eyes. “Stop you from throwing yourself off a bridge?”

He winced, feeling slightly ashamed of how weak he was. He shrugged. 

“I’m sure anyone would have done it in a heartbeat.” She said. Courfeyrac dropped his gaze again, giving his head the smallest shake. 

She seemed to realise what she’d said and grimaced to herself. Fuck, the reason he wanted to do this was because no one cared. Well, obviously it was more than just that but it was definitely a huge factor. 

“Why today?” She asked carefully, “did something happen?” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Look,” Azelma said eventually, tapping his knee so that he looked up at her, “I know we’ve just met but would you want to grab a coffee with me? I always find it seems to make your problems a lot smaller.” 

He didn’t respond. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want too...he definitely owned her one. But he was so drained and so...well. He wanted to die, now more than ever, and he was afraid that if he befriended Azelma he would have a reason to stay. 

And he didn’t want that.

And he was also worried that he’d end up staying anyway, finding someone he could rely on, and then she’d let him down like everyone else did. 

That was what would happen. He’d started to notice a pattern at this point. 

And he wasn’t sure he had the energy, the motivation or just the general feeling of not being so numbed up to his heart in pain inside that he honestly couldn’t say yes. 

“Maybe some other time?” 

If there ever _was_ a next time 

He smiled, a forced smile nonetheless, and he let her add her number to his contact list. He typed his own into her’s and felt a strange sense of satisfaction at finally doing something by himself. But then it occurred to him that maybe she was just being a good person-making sure he didn’t try and jump again. There wasn’t any way one person could he so kind voluntarily, right? But even so, she was nice and sweet and caring and he was almost ready to let himself find a friend even for just a moment. Even if eventually he might still end up falling. 

“So where are you heading, then?” Azelma asked, still staying by his side even as they began to make the long walk down to the cafe. He had no energy for it but he didn’t want his friends on his case if he bailed. 

“The Musain,” he said, pointing in the vague direction of it. To his surprise Azelma’s face lit up. 

“I knew it!” She said excitedly, “you’re part of Les Amis De L’ABC, aren’t you?” 

“Uh...yeah. How did you-“

“-My sister goes there. I went to one of your protests last year.” 

And then suddenly he could place why she was so familiar; she had the same dark, heavy-lidded eyes and thin frame as Eponine. Her  sister. 

“Oh my god. Eponine?” He said, turning to her in disbelief.

“Yeah,” she laughed, flicking a braid off her shoulder, “she’s-“

“-Terrifying.” He supplied.

“Yes. Yes she is.” 

They walked in comfortable silence until they reached the Musain door. He could see his friends laughing inside and he immediately regretted agreeing to go. He was for from being in the mood to smile let alone laugh. He just wanted to-

Well. He knew what he really wanted to do but there didn’t seem to be a chance for that anymore. Not today anyway. Azelma seemed to notice that his face had fallen because she said, 

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, you know?” 

“No, I know. But I have to.” 

“Courfeyrac-“

“-It’s fine. Really, don’t worry.” 

She bit her lip in concern but seemed to relent. 

“Call me, okay? If I don’t hear from you in three days I’m going to come and find you. And yes, I will know where you because I’ll get one of your friends to tell me.” 

“I will do.” He paused. “Thank you, again.” 

“I don’t want to hear it. Now go. Have fun.” 

Yeah. Fun. 

He nodded and watched her leave, feeling the familiar sinking feeling inside his chest. He half wished he’d ran after her, gone with her and tried to pretend that everything was okay. That he hadn’t just tried to kill himself. 

He wished that he could just waltz into the cafe like he used to, with a wink and a smile and a light feeling about him. But he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that free. 

He was so wrapped up in his own mind that he barely heard anything until he was less than a meter away from the group. And even then, he only caught the last few sentences of what someone was saying. 

“-I swear to god, Jehan, if you get  _ that  _ as a tattoo I will personally pull a Courfeyrac on you.” 

Time seemed to stop. Everything began to spin. 

He couldn’t have heard that right. 

There was no way, no  _ fucking  _ way, he was thinking properly because his friends wouldn’t-they wouldn’t...shit, they wouldn’t fucking _say_ that. And he could hear the collective gasps and nervous chuckles, people unsure if they could laugh because they were waiting to see if he would break or snap or  _ anything  _ and that was when the reality hit him. 

It struck him like a weight, snatching his breath and leaving him with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He felt his heart speed up, ringing in his ears and thumping in his chest, his entire body shaking. His heart felt too tight, his breathing out of beat and catching in his chest as he tried to make sense of what he heard. 

And he wasn’t just angry, he was broken. Because no matter what he did, nobody ever took him seriously. They couldn’t understand what it was like to be so constantly tired and full of this pain that wouldn’t go away. They didn’t have a sadness that wrapped itself around their hearts and kept them pulled to the ground, unable to brake free. 

“What did you say?” He choked out, tears immediately threatening to spill. He could hear the strain in his voice, feel the lump in his throat again. 

“Nothing,” someone said, “it was just a joke.” He looked up and saw Grantaire sitting on one of the tables, his face drained of colour and looking nervously around the room. 

“A joke? That’s not a fucking joke.” 

“Courf, relax. Please. I wasn’t being serious-“

“Oh, no I’m sorry. I must have missed the punchline. But it was funny, yeah, it was hilarious. Can you not see my laughing? Am Inot laughing hard enough for you?” 

There was no humour in his voice. He could feel the strain and hear it crack and break, the way he was so broken that even his voice wouldn’t do what he wanted. 

“Oh, come on man. I’m sorry, okay? It’s just dark humour-“

“Dark humour? What the-do you even fucking  _ hear  _ yourself? No, you laugh at your own expense, not someone else’s. Grantaire, you of all people should fucking know that.” 

He could hear muttering but couldn’t see who it was because his vision was so blurred with tears. He let out a shuddering gasp, feeling something inside of him break completely. 

“But no. You’re right. Of course you’re right! Because I don’t get a say in how  _I_ feel, do I? Because as long as I pretend to smile and pretend to laugh then it’s all okay and you can make fun of me as much as you like! Can’t you? Fucking can’t you?

It’s so funny that I was just about to kill myself an hour ago, isn’t it? It’s so funny that some random passer by cared more that any of you do and it was  her  who stopped me. You know, in fact-“ his eyes landed on Eponine and for the first time he realised how cold her’s were compared to AzeIma’s. “-it’s really ironic that it was  _ your  _ sister, Eponine, who stopped me. And fuck knows if I’m happy that she did. But I just think it’s _hilarious_ ,” he said between sobs, “that I shouldn’t have even been here right now and yet I am and you still think it’s okay to pretend I’m not hurting!” 

He looked around, waiting for someone to explain. But nothing came. 

“Courfeyrac-“ Enjolras’s voice was small, much smaller than he’d ever heard it, but he couldn’t face seeing him now. He shook his head and ran out of the room, back into the cold of the day. 

If only he’d waited a couple more seconds; he might have missed it. He might have missed hearing one of his best friends tearing through his heart. The pain threatened to explode and yet again he found himself running. 

But not back to Combeferre’s apartment. Not back to the bridge. Not back to the spot that he would have returned to all those years ago in his childhood. No, he found himself back outside his own apartment. 

The spare key he’d forgotten to move was still stashed under the doormat and he barged inside without hesitation. It seemed wrong; it was cold and bare, nothing he owned still there. He stumbled along the hallway, slamming the bathroom door behind him and leaning against it. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs escaped his chest as he felt his entire world spinning out of control again. 

~~~~~~~~

“Grantaire, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Enjolras yelled, finding himself rising from his chair and round the side of the table. 

Grantaire looked guilty to an extent but he just didn’t seem particularly fazed. He was twisting his thumbs under the table but his face was quite neutral. 

“He just took what I said the wrong way, that’s all. It’s not my fault.” 

“Of course it’s your fault!” He cried, slamming his fist down on the table. 

There were tears in his own eyes. Because Courfeyrac was in so much pain he felt he couldn’t go on, because Grantaire- _ Grantaire  _ who had once been in a similar place-didn’t seem to care. 

“Look, he doesn’t even like any of us anyway. He’s only here for you.” Grantaire said bluntly, his eyes hardening. Enjolras blinked. 

“What?” 

“Oh come  _on_.  You can’t be  _ that  _ oblivious.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

He looked around the room, seeing the guilty faces of his friends looking at each other nervously. His eyes landed on Combeferre. A few weeks ago he would have found reassurance in those eyes, an explanation and someone to lean on. But now he felt betrayal. He looked away.

He didn’t see Combeferre’s face fall. 

Instead he looked to Feuilly. He knew he would give him a straight, honest answer. 

“What’s he talking about?” 

Feuilly sighed deeply, eyes flickering around the room nervously, “He...have you ever thought about how deeply Courfeyrac’s feelings run for you?” 

“We’ve been friends for over fifteen years. We’re just close.” 

He couldn’t be implying that Courfeyrac’s feelings for him were romantic, could he? Enjolras knew that he himself used to harbour his own feelings for Courfeyrac up until recently. And if he was being honest with himself he still held a special place in his heart. But what did it matter? He was with Grantaire anyway, even if maybe he felt the smallest bit of regret at his decision. Especially now. But he knew they were wrong. Courfeyrac did not have any of those feelings for him...did he? 

Grantaire barked out a laugh and his friends seemed to be growing increasingly more uncomfortable. Feuilly sighed again. 

“I know. But...but maybe that’s why he forgave you so easily. And willingly.” 

“What do you mean? Wait wouldn’t you have...you wouldn’t...?

He felt his heart sink. If he had said any of those things that he said to Courfeyrac that night to anyone else, they wouldn’t have forgiven him. He suddenly realised how much of a bad person he was. He had scarred Courf so deeply and he hadn’t even realised it. It explained Combeferre’s hostility and the reason he tried to hard to keep him from seeing him. 

He didn’t deserve Courfeyrac. 

He didn’t deserve his forgiveness and yet he’d given it to him anyway. And all these years he’d...he’d loved him? 

He was moving towards the door when he felt Grantaire grab hold of his elbow, stopping him from leaving. 

“Get off of me.”

“What? You’re going to beg for him to listen to you? Just because  _ he’s  _ in love with you-“

“-Yeah, well right now I’d rather him over you. He needs me more.” 

And with that he left the cafe, a feeling in his gut telling him he knew just where Courfeyrac would be. 

He’d already ruled out Combeferre’s apartment-he seemed to avoid being there as much as possible-and it didn’t seem likely he’d want to be found, so he figured he wouldn’t be at their childhood park. But maybe...maybe he’d gone home. To his own apartment. 

Courfeyrac’s apartment wasn’t particularly far from the Musain and he’d the walked the distance so many times that it was drilled into his brain. With was probably a good thing considering his mind was crammed full of possibilities and questions. 

Was it possible that Courfeyrac had...feelings...for him? 

And what was it that Courfeyrac saw in him? 

He remembered the first time he’d kissed Courfeyrac-the first time he’d kissed anyone-and he supposed he’d taken advantage of him. A little. Anything he’d felt for Courf had always seemed to flit on and off and that was partly the reason he’d never tried to make sense of it. The other part was that he was a complete coward but that was neither here nor there. 

Anyway, he was being ridiculous. He was perfectly happy in a relationship with Grantaire, even if somewhere in his heart he felt anything else for anyone else. 

And then suddenly he realised how selfish a person he was. Courfeyrac was a few minutes away, in pain and needing help, and he was here wondering how he felt about him. It was a horrible, selfish thing to be thinking about, especially now, and he burned with shame even though no one could see him. 

When he reached Courfeyrac’s apartment there were no lights on. For a moment he wondered if he’d misjudged but on further inspection it was clear that the door was still unlocked. He paused only for a second, his heart racing more than it probably should. 

The door pushed easily open and he walked into the hallway he was so familiar with. 

It was eerie, actually. Courfeyrac’s belongings and everything that used to decorate his walls were still at Combeferre’s, and the things that weren’t he guessed where in the boxes that were piled up next to the door. It didn’t smell like Courfeyrac’s home either-which, yes, sounded strange-but usually there was that vanilla air refresher that he kept plugged in. But that too was gone. 

It was bare and lonely, no colours and dust covering most surfaces. And worst of all, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck as the memories of the night he’d found Courfeyrac practically drowning in his own blood. 

He’d been able to smell it the moment he stepped in; that strong, metallic scent that was so distinguishable. And he rembered the weird sensation that had gripped him, terror that he couldn’t quite place settling in his heart.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the intrusive memories and focused on his breathing for a moment. Automatically his hand flew to the place where the cockade pin should be attracted to his jacket but of course, it wasn’t there. 

A sadness filled his chest; like that feeling when you miss a step or when you’re asleep and suddenly you’re falling....falling...falling...and-

“-Courfeyrac?” He choked out, charging through the hallway, panic rising inside of him. Because what if he was too late? What if someone terrible had already happened and he couldn’t help him? 

There was no answer but when he rounded the corner he could hear the sound of muffled sobbing coming from the bathroom,slight shuffling audible. 

He knocked on the door, his heart hammering in his chest and his hands shaking, and the sobs subsided immediately. He opened it gently, giving him time to move out of the way, and was thankful when it opened easily enough. 

It was dark, the light not switched on, but he could see the outline of someone huddled in the corner. He was shaking, sure, but he seemed alive and really that was more than Enjolras had even been expecting. He turned on the light, fumbling around in the darkness for the switch, and winced as his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden brightness. 

Courfeyrac looked up for a brief second and in that moment Enjolras saw so much pain in his eyes. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot, wide and swimming with fear. The rise and fall of his chest was uneven and ragged and he was shaking terribly-so much Enjolras could even hear the chattering of his teeth. 

He dropped to his knees, immediately taking Courfeyrac’s hands in his own and pulling him close, so close. He could feel his own heart beating faster than usual but this wasn’t about him so he pushed the thought away and focused on levelling the other man’s breathing. 

“Can you hear me?” He said calmly, “Courfeyrac if you can hear me, please look at me.” To his surprise, he found Courfeyrac’s green eyes lock with his own, glazed over with tears but unmistakably trained on him. 

“Okay good, good, you’re doing great, alright? Now, try and match your breathing with mine, is that alright?” He took a deep, slow breath in and let the same kind out, feeling his heart clench as Courfeyrac struggled to copy him, his body shuddering as he tried to calm himself down. 

After a few minutes of walking him through the stages, he could feel Courfeyrac’s breathing easing. It was becoming more regular now, falling into rhythm with his own, and he smiled down at him. Courfeyrac collapsed into his chest, stumbling over his breath only occasionally as the last few tears slipped down his cheeks. 

“Thank you.” He whispered, and Enjolras felt his heart break just a little bit more. He hummed in response and pulled him closer, so close that his nose was buried in his dark curls. Courfeyrac shuffled a little bit and sat up, looking at him with big, pained eyes. 

“I’ve got something for you,” he said quietly, moving forwards a slight bit. For a crazy second, Enjolras thought he was about to kiss him. And then he felt shame twist his insides for wanting so much when his friend was so obviously hurting. Courfeyrac leant forwards to dig around in his pocket and then straightened up again.

Enjolras looked at him blankly, unsure what he was supposed to be looking at. Then he noticed Courfeyrac’s eyes weren’t on him anymore; they were looking down. He followed his gaze down and felt his heart almost leap out of his chest. 

Courfeyrac’s trembling palm was outstretched towards him and resting on it was his pin. But...but he’d thrown it away? Hadn’t he? He’d watched him let it fall to the rubbish and stay there. 

So why was he giving it back? He didn’t deserve forgiveness or even friendship, and he thought back to how he behaved at the hospital and oh fuck, he was such a horrible person. And he knew that it had taken him so long to come and find him after he moved to Ferre’s, and he knew it wasn’t entirely his fault, but he could have tried harder! He should have tried harder. He should have gone round or tried to catch Courfeyrac after one of his therapy sessions but he didn’t. He was too scared. Too much of a coward and now...

Now Courfeyrac was looking at him with a strange expression. He plucked the pin from his own palm and gently re-attached it to the spot where it had always been. Without meaning to he let his hand fly up to cover Courfeyrac’s, who’s eyes widened significantly. He immediately felt guilty, like he was taking advantage of him, and maybe his friends had been wrong and Courfeyrac didn’t have any feelings for him, but there was something in his eyes that told him otherwise. A gentleness that he’d never seen him look at anyone else with. 

He began to move his hand but Courfeyrac caught it and twisted their fingers together, as he did so a warmth spreading through his chest. Before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning forwards, getting closer and closer to the other man. He was so close he could count every freckle on his cheek and pick out every shade of green in his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, giving him a chance to pull away, but Courfeyrac only leaned in further and within seconds their lips were pressed together. 

It was wonderful. At first they were both unsure and nervous, not knowing each other’s boundaries, but then the kiss grew deeper. The tenderness seemed to dissolve and it was no longer chaste and shy. He gripped the back of Courfeyrac’s neck and held him gently in place. It was warm and comforting and there was no expectation of more, but one of Courfeyrac’s hands was fisted in his t-shirt, the other tangled in his hair, their bodies pressed so close together that it was impossible to clear any more distance between them. 

It felt right, everything was right, like Courfeyrac’s lips were the missing piece to a puzzle that he’d spent so long trying to find. He felt at ease; his hand belonged on Courfeyrac’s waist and his fit perfectly on his chest. 

However it didn’t last long. 

Neither of them had noticed the creak of the footsteps outside in the hallway and attention was only drawn from them as someone started speaking. 

“Courfeyrac, is Enjolras with you? I owe you an apology for-“

The bathroom door swung open and they jumped apart, Courfeyrac pushing him away and huddling back into the corner. Enjolras looked up, his heart thudding so loudly he swore Grantaire would be able to here it. 

Grantaire; his boyfriend. 

Shit, what had he done? 

“Grantaire it’s not what it looks like-“

“-Oh, really?” Grantaire said coldly, the strain obvious in his voice. His eyes were filled with tears and Enjolras could feel his own beginning to prickle, “Because to me, I think it’s exactly what it looks like.” 

He stormed out of the room, his quiet sobs echoing in the empty hallways. Enjolras was frozen in a blind panic, shaking from head to foot. He was lost. He was so lost and he’d gone with his gut and oh, fuck, he’d ruined his own relationship. 

“Grantaire, wait!” He breathed, stumbling out of the bathroom and out into the cold without a second thought. 

~~~~~~

Courfeyrac had been so happy, so desperately, blissfully happy, and even that had to be taken away from him. He had temporarily drawn himself out of the void with the help of Enjolras’s lips and now that they were gone he’d fallen back into the coldness. 

Suddenly the world seemed to lurch and he felt gasping sobs begin to escape his body. What had he done? Ruined Enjolras and Grantaire, ruined Enjolras’s friendships and his own friendships and everything. It was all gone. He was so weak! He’d given into the temptation, something he’d longed for for so long, and he’d ruined so much because of it. 

Did Enjolras even like him?  How  could he ever like him? Surely he was just being pitiful and kind and someone most have fucking told him how he felt because he knew Enjolras was much too oblivious to work it out himself. 

_Grantaire was gone and Enjolras didn’t know where he was. He’d tried ringing him but every call was denied and every message went ignored. How could he have done this? How could he have ruined the lives of both the men he loved? Fuck. Fuck, he loved Grantaire. But even though he loved Courfeyrac too he knew Grantaire didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve a cheater and a liar and he should have seen it. He shouldn’t have given into a temporary urge that would cost all three of them so much._

He didn’t know what to do. He knew there was no way he could try and run after either of them and his legs were too weak anyway. But his panic was rising again and he needed to stop and calm down but nothing was working and everything was flashing, hurting his head and pounding against his skull. 

He tried to push Enjolras from his mind but his lips were too sweet and his hair was too pretty and his face was too fucking beautiful and he couldn’t take it! Even if him and Grantaire managed to save their relationship, Courfeyrac couldn’t go back to silently crying inside. Especially now that he’d see what could of been his.

He wasn’t strong enough to watch his only love smile with Grantaire, laugh with Grantaire,  be  with Grantaire and not be able to say anything. How was he supposed to do that. 

The pain in his heart was only growing stronger, his head feeling weaker and weaker and he needed someone. He needed someone to hold him close and tell him he could do this. But he didn’t deserve even that. 

Instead he reached for the cabinet door. 

_ Enjolras was halfway home, his vision blurred with tears and no idea where Grantaire was, when he realised just how badly he’d messed up and just who would be paying more as a consequence than either himself or Grantaire.  _

_ He turned around immediately, his feet pounding against the pavement as he tore through the streets to reach the apartment he’d just run from. He was still shaking with guilt and he couldn’t fathom how he could have done this to Courfeyrac. He knew how much he needed help and yet he’d left him alone and in desperate need of help. Everyone in the streets watched the crying man struggling to run but nobody helped.  _

Each slash of the razor sent pain flying through his fragile body like lightning but he couldn’t stop. The world around him was spinning sickeningly, turning upside down. To see the deep red staining his skin reminded him of how useless he was and how he could never be able to love the man he cared for so dearly. Everything felt too sharp and too much and not even the pain seemed to be able to numb him anymore. 

Nothing was enough because he was still breathing. 

He wanted Enjolras but if Enjolras cared then he wouldn’t have left. If Enjolras cared he would never have kissed him whilst he was still with Grantaire. 

It was cruel and heartbreaking and so, so painful to pretend that he loved him when he didn’t!

He could already feel his eyelids growing heavy and he knew he’d gone further than he really meant to. Although, he realised with a jolt, it was relieving. He wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore, wouldn’t have to  _feel_. 

No pain. 

No anger. 

No hurt. 

Nothing. 

Just the sweet embrace that death would bring. He could feel it now, tugging at his sleeve and whispering in his ears and really, he would try to hold on but there wasn’t much to be said for faith in a dying world. But he wasn’t afraid of death. In fact, he realised that death was much kinder than people made it out to be. If it would offer him freedom, he would hold its hand willingly. 

Dying was easy. Living was harder. 

He wasn’t so cold anymore, his mind finally beginning to feel more at ease. The pain that once burned liked fire had faded away to a numbness, and his blurred vision was black around the edges. The only thing he could hear was the irregular beating of his own heart as it struggled to keep him alive, though he knew it was unsuccessful. 

If he could have, he would have laughed. The despair and suffering was finally going away and there was nothing anyone could do. Death was the gateway to rebirth, the end of a chapter, and he had no intention of calling out. And even if he did his breathing was too ragged and voice to weak. 

He realised vaguely that Azelma would never get that call she’d been waiting for. 

At least he wouldn’t burden her. 

They say a man who has lived fully is not afraid of death. Yet Courfeyrac has not lived fully, nor has he ever had any intention to, but he is not afraid. Death is a painful truth, is what some people say, and life may be the beginning but he did not want to find out what was left of such a terrible world. 

He could feel his heart squeezing in his chest, and a small sob managed to escape. If only someone had cared. If only someone had listened. If only...if only he wasn’t himself. Then he might have been happy. 

But right now he did not care. 

And maybe this whole time he’d been running only from himself, building walls and tearing away at his hope. Maybe it was his fault. 

And if it was, who cared? 

Not him, anyway. 

_ Enjolras rounded the corner a few moments later, panting heavily and praying to God he had been quick enough to stop anything bad happening because, oh fuck, if it had he would never forgive himself.  _

_ When he burst into the apartment the only thing he registered was that sharp, metallic scent of blood... _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to last chapter!!!!  
> This was very long and I’m SORRY but this time I’ve not left you hanging and the next chapter’s up too....  
> Please tell me what you think! I love getting comments they make me so happy  
> Thank you :)


	10. Epilogue

It was years before Enjolras braved himself to return home. 

The Musain still stood; tall and proud, and the sign on the door that read  ‘ _welcome_ ’  in big, pastel colours hadn’t changed a bit. He wanted to see if the inside had been altered, if there was a new owner and if they’d bought more furniture or re-painted the peeling plaster on the walls. 

He wanted to, but he did not. 

And yet somehow he still felt like he was home. 

He reached the old cemetery in no time, kneeling beside his best friend once again. Not much had really changed; the lettering was understandably weathered, nothing extreme, and the gravestone had aged. Moss gathered a little at the corners but it still stood upright, a bunch of sunflowers resting below it. 

Sunflowers had always been Courfeyrac’s favourite; they were bright and colourful and Enjolras had always thought they matched his personality so well. He only wished he’d seen through the mask Courfeyrac had worn much quicker, whilst there was still time. 

“Courfeyrac,” he whispered, his voice not as strong as it once had been, hoarse and trembling. It felt sort of tired, like the flowers that wilted on some of the older gravestones either side. “Courfeyrac, I’m home.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY, OKAY?  
> IM SAD TOO 
> 
> But that’s it!  
> It’s finished...it feels weird. It’s been sitting here unfinished for so long I decided I was going to get it done once and for all and I swear it took me literally all day, I’m not even joking 
> 
> But anyway  
> Please, please, please tell me how you thought it was? It’s the first looooong fic I’ve finished (meaning with more than 2 chapters) and I’d love to know you thought it was 
> 
> Was it sad enough?  
> I think it was sad enough  
> I think...  
> I don’t know  
> I love writing angst :)
> 
> And again, to anyone who’s stuck with me this whole time THANK YOU!!! I couldn’t have asked for more :)  
> Thank you :)
> 
> Also: here’s my (mini) playlist I used whilst writing this...however I can’t link it because I don’t have Spotify (Apple music) but here’s the songs and the artists: 
> 
> Yellow- Coldplay   
> Fight or flight- Conan Gray   
> Hold on- Chord   
> All I want- Kodaline   
> Pretend you care- Mikky Ekko   
> Wrapped in piano strings- Radical Face  
> Time to go- Dean Lewis   
> White blank page- Mumford and sons   
> Say something- A great big world and Christine Aguilera   
> Dawning of spring- Anson Seabra   
> Train wreck- James Arthur   
> King of the clouds- Panic! At the disco   
> Sleepsong- Bastille   
> On my own- Les Miserables (Shan Ako or Samantha Barks)   
> We must be killers- Mikky Ekko


End file.
